


you search the mountain

by QuickYoke



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Drust AU, F/F, Horror, Slow Burn, also long-winded 17th century battles, and more historical worldbuilding than you can shake a stick at, drust!Jaina, here be spooky deer and shit, if you've been in Drustvar you know the drill, typical Drust horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 125,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 336
Kudos: 1015





	1. Chapter 1

> _“Thorns on my breasts, rain in my mouth, loam on my bare feet, rough bark grazing my back, I moaned for them all. You stood, waist deep, in a stream, pulling me in, so I swam. You were the water, the wind in the branches wringing their hands, the heavy, wet perfume of soil. I am there now, lost in the forest, dwarfed by the giant trees. Find me.”_
> 
> _— Carol Ann Duffy, from Forest; Rapture, 2005_

* * *

* * *

To the surprise of no one, it was raining in Boralus. An icy sleet rushed down from the mountains, pelting civilians in an inescapable barrage. It coated the rooftops. It clung to the eaves. It made treacherous the cobblestone streets. And though it was mid-morning, the watery sunlight could not pierce the heavy bank of cloud that washed over the harbour, so that it felt like dusk. Any rational people would have sequestered themselves inside for warmth, but it seemed that Kul Tirans were utterly immune to the cold wet misery of their capital city. Or perhaps they had merely forgotten what it meant to be dry. 

A crowd was gathered on the westernmost docks, sheltered by the inlet. Red banners bearing a crest of scales slapped wetly against their pillars. Dockworkers had halted their usual bustle of activity. Casks and crates and other break bulk hung suspended in the air by creaking ropes. A shark had been strung from a hook and gutted on the quay. The fisherman still held a bloodied knife in his hands, but his attention was turned upon the massive ship tethered to the pier. 

The ship was a hulking mass of timbers. She was broad and lavishly decorated. Her sails were tightly furled lengths of new white canvas. Her mainmast bore two flags, which snapped in the wind. The longer pennant was red and streaming and far more prominent than its foul-anchored counterpart. She was the pride of the Ashvane merchant fleet, and she was -- to be frank -- quite horrid to behold. Ugly, even.

Not that Sylvanas would ever say that aloud. Certainly not when she was surrounded on all sides by Kul Tiran sailors and stevedores, all of whom were nudging each other and murmuring their appreciation of such a saucy vessel. Whatever that meant. 

What shelter there was to be found on the docks was next to useless. The wind slanted the rain at an angle that slashed beneath any eaves, no matter how deep. Sylvanas’ long ears twitched, flicking off a few drops of rain to very little effect. She reached up to tug the hood of her cloak more firmly in place. The Kul Tirans on the dock gave her a wide berth, or otherwise pretended that she did not exist. 

Beside her, Nathanos leaned forward to mutter. “With all due respect, my Queen: remind me why we are here?” 

Sylvanas did not take her eyes off the ship. Wordlessly, she nodded towards just above the hideously gilded stern windows. Officers stood atop the poop deck, glittering in all their finery. Three figures stood at the very fore of the ship’s congregation, clearly identifiable even from this distance. Lord Stormsong clutched his staff, tall and dark and glowering in his mitre of office. Lady Ashvane held a possessive hand on the ship’s rail, her fingers glittering with a glut of gem-studded rings. And between them both stood the Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore. She was straight-backed and grey, as though carved from pale iron. Her militant greatcoat cut a sleek dagger-like figure through the curtain of rain. 

"Is this really worth it?" Nathanos asked in a low tone. "We already have the Zandalari Navy."

Sylvanas waved him away. "We are still negotiating that treaty, I'll remind you."

"And if it fails, I shall eat crow."

"Don't say such tempting things, Nathanos. I might sabotage the treaty for fun."

He sniffed, clearly unimpressed by her threats. "You are dodging the question."

Sylvanas watched the quayside. Her eyes glowed a dull dangerous red, seeking any hint of Alliance representatives or spies. She found none. Nathanos and her rangers would have alerted her of any such Alliance presence in Boralus at once. Still, she scowled. "The Alliance is circling over this place like a well-fed vulture. Foiling them is its own reward. And besides," Sylvanas added dryly. "One always needs more friends."

“With friends like these you’re more likely to end up with a knife in your back.”

Sylvanas hummed a thoughtful note. “Situation normal, then.”

Indeed, Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane watched their Lord Admiral with openly hawkish expressions. Katherine hid her limp well -- an old war wound from some wayward grapeshot, or so Sylvanas was told -- but there could be no doubt that she appeared wan. Her shoulders were hoisted straight back and proud, but her gloved hands trembled somewhat.

Nathanos did not sound amused when he said, “From what I understand, the previous Lord Admiral had his youngest son tried and hung for treason.”

At that, Sylvanas arched an eyebrow and cast a curious look over her shoulder. “What manner of treason?”

“A certain band of orcs were shipwrecked on the coast of Kul Tiras on their way to Kalimdor. The boy dared to offer them aid, and kept it secret from his father.”

“Not very well, apparently.” She turned back to studying the ship ceremony. There was whiskey being poured into tankards now. “And the Lord Admiral in question?”

“Sailed west after the orcs who killed his eldest son. He was eventually slain by Thrall and Rexxar, and subsequently succeeded by his wife and only remaining Heir.” Nathanos inclined his head towards Katherine Proudmoore aboard the merchant ship. 

“Hmm,” said Sylvanas. 

Katherine Proudmoore was lifting the tankard of whiskey into the air. She drank deeply from the cup, before passing it first to Lord Stormsong, and then to Lady Ashvane. When the tankard was back in her hands, she poured what remained onto the deck of the ship, while Lord Stormsong chanted some nonsense about the Tides. The sailors and stevedores on the docks began to cheer, voicing their approval of a newly blessed ship. 

“Does our esteemed host currently have an Heir?” Sylvanas mused aloud, lifting her voice just enough to be heard over the din. 

Nathanos shook his head. “None that has been announced to the Great Houses. They would need to be confirmed by a majority vote before they could succeed the Admiralty.” 

Sylvanas had her arms crossed. She tapped the fingers of her clawed gauntlet against her opposite arm. They clicked against links of chainmail. She could not feel the chill through the veil of undeath that hung over her, but weather like this always reminded her of other places; Northrend was too close to the lingering cold. Finally, Sylvanas said, “Find me one. A lesser cousin, perhaps. Anyone with the name ‘Proudmoore’ attached to their lineage, even peripherally.”

For a moment, Nathanos made no reply. When he spoke, it was in a low hiss. “I had hoped to dissuade you from this course, my Queen. This place is on the brink of civil war.”

“Excellent. I always did love a good challenge.” Sylvanas said dryly. The crowd was beginning to break up now that the ceremonial ship launching was for all intents and purposes complete. The three Great House leaders had stepped down to the quarterdeck, out of sight from the quay. Sylvanas herself turned and began to stride back towards the city centre. “Now, please tell me you’ve found someplace for us to stay in this miserable backwater that isn’t thoroughly damp.” 

Nathanos did not say anything. He did not need to. The look on his face was answer enough.

Sylvanas twisted her mouth to one side as though she had bitten into a sour lemon, and she growled, “Fantastic. The weather shall drive me away before the god-awful people do.”

“Then I shall pray for a rainy season.”

“Don’t you know?” Sylvanas tsked. “It’s always a rainy season in Kul Tiras.”

* * *

Three days later, Sylvanas was being escorted by a steward into Proudmoore Keep out of the downpour. The guards flanking the great doors of the Keep were dressed in heavy oilskin jackets beneath their livery. Their kettle hats, which Sylvanas had previously thought were purely for show rather than utility, kept the rain off their faces. 

She had arrived at the Keep alone, much to the annoyance of Nathanos and her rangers. She had told them they could circle the Keep if it made them feel better about it. There was no doubt in her mind that they were probably prowling the grounds before she even set foot inside without them. But the invitation from the Lord Admiral had specifically been for the Warchief of the Horde, and not for sundry others. Sylvanas was not about to jeopardise this mission before she could even get a chance to speak with the military leader of Kul Tiras. 

The moment the great doors shut behind them, the steward held out his arm. "Your cloak, my Lady?"

Sylvanas considered him coolly before she pushed the hood away from her face and unclasped the cloak from her pauldrons. The fabric dripped into his arms when he took it and handed it over to another servant, who whisked it away into an unseen cloakroom behind a set of doors. 

The steward seemed not to mind the wet at all. He did not even deign to wick it from his tailored suit. "If you would follow me, please."

It was a long walk through the vast warren of corridors. Proudmoore Keep was designed to withstand an invasion, should the harbour be overrun. As Sylvanas discreetly studied the various hallways branching off in different directions, she roughly calculated how many souls could be housed here during a siege, and for how long.

Not that that information would be relevant. Not so soon, anyway. 

Eventually, the steward led her to a nondescript doorway, which bore an iron anchor in its wood grain. He knocked, and from within came the sharp order, "Come in!"

Before opening the door however, the steward passed a critical eye over Sylvanas' appearance. She had left her bow and quiver behind, but there remained tucked into her boot a wickedly curved silver skinning knife. A gift from another life. His lips thinned at the sight of the hilt peeking out from her calf. 

Sylvanas glared at him, and her eyes burned crimson. "Do not even think of it," she said coldly.

Despite their difference in size -- Sylvanas was tall by her people's standards, but Kul Tirans seemed a cut above the usual humans she had encountered in the past -- he silently came to the conclusion that one knife was not worth the effort, for he sniffed in disdain. Still, he turned and opened the door for her, even going so far as to bow at the waist as she passed.

An attempt had been made to soften the omnipresent grey stone by the addition of thick rugs. It did very little to make the room more cosy. A dull fire snapped in a black-scorched fireplace, and a wrought-iron candelabra dripped wax from the ceiling. Sylvanas had been in dungeons as accommodating as Proudmoore Keep. The Kul Tiran sense of interior design was cut from the same cloth as their choice in homeland, it seemed. 

The Lord Admiral was seated in a high-backed armchair before the fireplace. Beside her was an identical chair, and between them a low table, which carried a tray with a tea set. A thin tendril of steam wound its way from the teapot's spout. The rain-lashed windows were dark, their corners beset with a light mist. Katherine's greatcoat was gone, revealing her shirtsleeves and waistcoat. A warm woolen blanket had been draped across her knees. 

Katherine glanced up from a book she was reading. Her half moon spectacles gleamed in the dancing firelight. "Ah. It's you." She marked her place in the book with a length of ribbon, setting it on the table beside the tea set. 

When Sylvanas tucked her hands behind her back and inclined her head respectfully, the Lord Admiral gestured sharply towards the other chair. "None of that bullshit. Sit. Please." 

The last sounded tacked on and half-remembered, as though they hadn’t the time for such pleasantries. A woman for whom wasted words were a sin, then. 

Crossing the room, Sylvanas sat. For a long tense moment, the two studied one another in a quiet broken only by the crackle of the fire as a log slipped across the embers. Then, Sylvanas said, “I would comment on the delights of your fair city, but I have yet to find them. The weather is atrocious, and the people inhospitable.”

If anything, Katherine seemed amused by this observation. “Quite right. Tea?” she asked. Her hand hovered over the handle of the porcelain teapot. “Or are you even able to consume food and drink in your…” She fished for the right word. “... _unique condition?”_

Rather than answer, Sylvanas nudged a cup and saucer closer to the teapot. “No milk.”

Katherine poured two cups accordingly. She hid the slight tremor in her forearms as she lifted the heavy teapot, but Sylvanas noticed regardless. Sylvanas said nothing. Instead, she took the opportunity to silently note the heavy lines etched into the Lord Admiral’s face, her narrow shoulders, her general pallor. When Katherine handed over a saucer and cup without milk, Sylvanas took it with a simple murmur of thanks. 

“So, tell me,” Katherine began, and though her body appeared frail, her eyes and voice were sharp enough to cut. “Why are you here? Did you hope to convince me of something in person in a way your envoys could not?”

“That was the plan, yes,” Sylvanas said dryly.

Stirring milk into her own cup, Katherine tapped the little silver spoon against the porcelain rim. “I hardly think sailing a warship into my waters will convince me to open the borders to the Horde.”

“A single frigate is hardly a threat to the might of the Kul Tiran fleet.” Sylvanas sipped at her tea. It tasted muddy, like everything else. “Unless, of course, your storied Navy is far less powerful than I have been led to believe.”

Katherine grunted a wordless note into her own cup. It sounded like the midway point between a snort and a laugh. She lowered the cup to its saucer, and held them close to her chest in both hands. “Go on, then, Warchief. What message do you have for me that your emissaries did not have the balls to deliver themselves?”

Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose. There was a gentle clink of porcelain against the wooden table as she slowly set down her tea. “Very well,” she murmured. Then, leaning forward in her seat she met the Lord Admiral’s unflinching gaze. “You are a widow with no remaining children. Your peers already plot against you. Your good health is quickly fading. You are in need of a powerful ally to steady the ship, so to speak, and I am a very patient woman with all the time in the world thanks to my _‘unique condition’.”_

Despite her best efforts, Sylvanas could not keep the slight sneer at bay when she said those words. The longer Sylvanas spoke, the more stony Katherine’s face became. Her jaw clenched, and her blue eyes narrowed. When Sylvanas had finished, Katherine tongued the inside of her cheek and then took a long sip of her tea. “When I encouraged you to be blunt, I did not mean _that_ blunt.”

Sylvanas shrugged, an unapologetic lift of one shoulder. “Then you should not have asked.” 

Katherine pursed her lips into a thin line. Another sip of tea, as though to calm herself before she spoke again. “I respect your honesty, even if I do not appreciate its implications. The truth is never easy to bear. But you cannot deny that your people and mine, we have a history. Even were I to accept your offer of ‘stability’ and whatever that entails, there would be severe internal resistance to an alliance with the Horde.” 

“Small steps first, Lord Admiral,” said Sylvanas. She leaned her elbow upon the armrest, but eased off slightly when she felt her armour begin to scrape the supple leather. “We can talk open borders now, and formal ties later.” 

“My people will not see the difference. Not quickly enough for me to be of any political use ‘later’, as it were. As you’ve already said, my position is -” Katherine held up her teacup as though drinking to good health, “- precarious at best. I cannot risk seeming weak now, of all times.” 

Trying to seem blithe, Sylvanas said, “Then you leave me little choice but to seek out alternative arrangements with your peers.”

Sylvanas’ ears tilted back in surprise, when Katherine let out a bark of laughter. She was still laughing when she went to pour herself another cup of tea. 

“By all means.” Katherine poured a dollop of milk into her cup before drinking from it. She smiled at Sylvanas over the rim, but her gaze was humourless. “You may think me a stubborn old crone -- and you wouldn’t be half wrong -- but I know Lord Alfred and Lady Priscilla very well. They would be even less inclined to hear your petition than I am. Though if you do end up asking them, be sure to do it before I die. I so rarely get a laugh these days.”

With that, Katherine added another hearty little chuckle. Sylvanas had to school her features and stop her ears from pinning straight back in irritation. Her clawed gauntlets dug into the armrest. This time she did nothing to stop them from piercing the material. “Last I heard, there are four Great Houses of Kul Tiras, not just three.”

“And so there are.” Beneath the blanket, Katherine’s foot began to bob in time with the tapping of her finger against her teacup. Abruptly, both stopped. “You’ll find Lucille Waycrest a paltry ally, I’m afraid. The culmination of the Drust incursion has left her region to the mercy of the other Houses. She does the best she can, poor girl, but she inherited a fractured House.” 

Sylvanas bared her teeth in a fierce smile. “In my experience, desperation can lead to surprising ends.”

Katherine brushed aside the implication of that statement with a shake of her head. “I cannot stop you from personally speaking with anyone, but your ships are still not welcome in Kul Tiran waters. There will be no open borders to either the Horde or Alliance while I draw breath.”

“Then I suppose our conversation is finished.” In a clink of armour, Sylvanas rose to her feet. 

Katherine did not follow suit. She remained seated, cradling her cup of tea. Peering thoughtfully up at Sylvanas over her half moon spectacles, she cocked her head to one side. “To say it has been a pleasure would be a lie. Nevertheless, I am glad to have met you, Warchief.” Then she waved Sylvanas away. “Now, be a dear, won’t you, and have the steward bring an old woman another blanket.”

When Sylvanas swept from the room without another word, the steward was waiting for her outside. She stormed right past him down the halls back the way they had come. He had to trot to keep up with her, despite his own long-legged stride. Sylvanas did not speak until they had reached the cloakroom, where the steward disappeared inside to retrieve her cloak. She tapped her foot against the stone tiled entryway. 

The steward reappeared and she snatched her cloak from his hands. As she was fitting it back into place, she snapped, "Take your Lord Admiral another blanket."

The steward blinked in confusion, but immediately rushed off towards Katherine's study to do as he was bidden. Sylvanas tugged the hood of her cloak over her head and snapped her fingers at one of the guardsmen to open the doors for her. The pair of guards did so, heaving at the heavy iron-bound doors until they groaned open just enough for her to slip through.

Outside, it was only twilight, but it looked to be nearing dense night. It was still pissing down with rain. Sylvanas glowered out at the icy downpour, but did not slow her steps as she descended the sweeping staircase from Proudmoore Keep. 

Before she could reach the second set of stairs, Nathanos and two of her dark rangers appeared at her side. The rangers dropped a few paces behind, shadowing their footsteps with watchful eyes, coal-bright. 

Nathanos' coat did not have a hood. Somewhere he had procured one of the kettle hats and livery sets worn by the Proudmoore guards. "How did it go?" 

Sylvanas glanced sidelong at him. "You look ridiculous."

"I gladly suffer for the sake of your safety," said Nathanos dryly. "Now, how did it go?"

Her brows drew sharply down. "She is a stubborn old crone," Sylvanas growled. Her frustration was exacerbated by the squelch of water in her boots. "I quite like her. It is a shame she will not last the next five years. Otherwise, we might have reached an understanding. And what do you have for me?"

In answer, Nathanos lifted two fingers. "Lord Aldrius Norwington. One of Daelin Proudmoore's second cousins, and by all accounts a rich old toff with little interest in politics. But he and his wife are beloved by the Navy. She was a Captain of Marines and he served as a Rear Admiral for a number of years before retiring."

"I assume there's a catch?" Sylvanas asked. 

"He is old. Older than the Lord Admiral. And his son died at sea not long ago. He and his wife, Elena, have been in mourning ever since."

"Hmm." They strode towards Unity Square, swiftly making their way towards the inn that Nathanos had secured for them earlier that week. Sylvanas could see sheets of rain in every pool of light from the flickering poles that lined the streets. "And what is the second option?"

Nathanos glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice before answering. "A daughter."

At that, Sylvanas stopped in her tracks. She stared at him incredulously. "A daughter?" she repeated. "I thought the Lord Admiral had no other children."

"She had three. The youngest was a girl by the name of Jaina. From what I understand, the girl was somewhat magically gifted. Katherine and Daelin had an altercation regarding how she ought to be trained. In the end, Katherine smuggled her off to a Drust Thornspeaker by the name of Ulfar.”

“And her current whereabouts?”

Nathanos shook his head, and his kettle hat sent droplets of rain scattering about. “Unknown and presumed dead. Killed during the Drust incursion a few years back. Though her body was never recovered.” 

For a long moment, Sylvanas did not reply. The drum of the rain drowned out other noises, so that the sounds of the harbour could only just be heard from the nearby dock districts. Light spilled from the windows of houses, restaurants, and taverns, along with the sounds of merriment from within. Only a few others wandered the streets in this part of town. Mostly Proudmoore guards, the occasional lieutenant on foot, or even a nobleman's carriage bearing some lesser House's coat of arms. 

Finally, Sylvanas turned away from the inn which they had been heading towards, and instead strode off in the direction of the docks. "Nathanos, see that our rooms are cancelled for the evening. Anya, arrange for the first ferry to Drustvar. I want us there by daybreak."

Whereas Anya inclined her head and then seemed to melt into the shadows, Nathanos sighed. He made no movement. "The likelihood of finding her is very slim. And even if we do manage to miraculously stumble across her corpse, it will be too far gone for her people to accept her back into proper society."

"You misunderstand me. I mean to find her alive. And failing that, we will procure someone suitable to serve as a nephew to this Norwington fellow. Now," she swung her gaze towards him, her eyes burning through the late afternoon gloom. "I believe I gave you an order, Blightcaller."

Removing his kettle hat, he swept it to his decrepit heart and bowed. "I live to serve the Dark Lady."

Sylvanas watched him with a scowl. When he straightened and departed to do as she commanded, she called after him. “And get rid of that outfit before we leave!”

* * *

The only good thing Sylvanas could say about Arom's Stand was that at least it wasn't raining. Instead, it was snowing. The hills were surrounded by steep mountains, which already bore their white winter coats. Sylvanas could just make out their ridges in the distance through the scattering of snowfall. 

The town itself wasn't much in and of itself. An open stable and rink, where a few horses huddled together for warmth. A mere handful of ramshackle buildings precariously perched together so that they seem to lean towards one another -- not unlike the horses. It was mid morning, but already the lanterns hung over each doorpost were lit, shedding pools of warm yellowish light through the drifts.

It had taken them the morning to get from the little docks where the ferry had unceremoniously dumped them. At least they hadn't been forced to hike the whole way. Sylvanas was willing to suffer few indignities these days. Walking through miles of snow was not one of them. She had scarcely waited until the ferryman was out of sight before she summoned skeletal horses from the earth. The bones had leapt from the ground with an eagerness that had momentarily shocked her. As though the land of Drustvar were hungry for life beyond the grave.

Now at Arom's Stand, the supposed heart of the noble witch-hunting Order of Embers, she saw only one person walking about. And that was a man who staggered out of what appeared to be a shabby little tavern to piss into the snowbank.

"Charming place," Sylvanas muttered. Her skeletal horse stamped a bony hoof as if in agreement. 

“Seems like work is slow,” Nathanos noted.

The haughty timbre Anya’s voice was unmistakable as one of the rangers behind them replied, “They must have run out of witches to burn.”

For all that, Sylvanas spied a few tokens strung over the doorways. Bits of bone carved with scrimshaw and bound in leather strips. Kul Tirans were sailors, through and through. And sailors were a superstitious lot. 

The man out the front of the tavern was fumbling with the drawstrings of his breeches once more, tying them firmly in place. He had not seemed to have noticed their presence, for he stumbled back into the tavern without any hesitation. The door slammed shut behind him. 

“And apparently they’ve run out of wits as well,” Anya added.

“But not drink,” said Nathanos.

That earned a brief titter of shadowy laughter from both Anya and the other ranger, Velonara.

Slipping her feet from the stirrups, Sylvanas dismounted. The moment she stepped away from the horse, its form collapsed in a rush of dry bone and dust, which marked the pale snow. She ignored the antics of Nathanos and her rangers, as well as their sudden sharp attention upon her when she started wading her way through the snow towards the tavern.

"We should gather any intel before you go in alone, my Queen," Velonara said.

Sylvanas did not stop. Nor did she turn around to glance at them. The snow came up to just below her knees. She grunted as she all but kicked a path for her calves. "If I want to be coddled, I will tell you," she said. "Otherwise, you are to wait for me outside."

Behind her, Nathanos made a disgruntled noise, which was not parroted by the rangers, though Sylvanas did not need to look around to know that their expressions would be blankly unimpressed. They did not question her further, however. And by the time she reached the steps leading to the tavern, they had vanished. 

Sylvanas took a moment to knock her armoured ankles against the topmost step to loosen any remaining snow before approaching the door. Unlike the inns and taverns at Boralus, this establishment lacked the sound of lively laughter and conversation, of feet stamping along to the rhythm of a fiddle while patrons drunkenly sang along to the chorus of their favourite sea shanties. Here, the windows were blackened with soot, barely leaking through the firelight from within. 

When she opened the door and stepped inside, every patron turned to regard her with a steady gaze. There were not many of them. A mere five, and that included the barkeep. More witch's tokens were strung up along the rafters alongside the cobwebs. Bits of bone and thorn wound together. Even a little wicker effigy had been affixed over the fireplace beneath the sun-bleached skull of a deer. Steps wound up the opposite side of the room, leading to what she assumed were the barkeep's accommodations. The barkeep himself had his feet propped atop a cask of ale behind the counter. His apron bore a series of stains all along the once white linen. He tilted his hat back to get a better look at her.

The other four all wore dark-washed tabards with a flame-like symbol woven into the fabric with copper thread. Three of them nursed chipped tankards of ale. The fourth was a red-haired slip of a girl who held a knife in her hands, its point digging into the wooden benchtop. After a long moment, they all turned away from her. They returned to their own closed circle of conversation, taking up every last seat at the bar. Their voices were hushed murmurs and rumbles.

Sylvanas strode straight up to the end of the bar and leaned her elbow against it. Her voice cut through their soft-spoken phrases like a claw through hide. "I am looking for members of the Order of Embers. That's you, isn't it?"

One of the men, a tall burly human with bushy black sideburns, set down his drink. "We might be."

At that, Sylvanas gave their tabards a pointed glance. His colleague, a great hulking woman with shoulders like a shipwreck and a scar running down her left cheek, rolled her eyes.

"Enough of that, Sterntide." She jerked her head towards Sylvanas. "Joan Cleardawn. Marshal of the Order.” She gestured towards the others in turn. “This is Sterntide. Notley. And Mace. Not many strangers come 'round these parts nowadays. Have you gotten lost?"

"No," said Sylvanas.

Sterntide, for all his gruff demeanor, motioned towards the barkeep for another drink. When the barkeep pulled out an extra tankard for their guest, Sylvanas shook her head curtly. "Nothing for me."

She drummed her clawed gauntlet against the wooden bartop. Beside her, the slight red-haired woman named Mace fiddled restlessly with the knife in her hands. She scraped little carvings into the scarred wood. From this angle, Sylvanas could just make out the beginnings of an animal skull, though which kind was yet to be determined. Certainly, there were some very sharp teeth involved.

Sylvanas looked away from the carvings. "I was told your Order still keeps in regular contact with the Drust," she continued. "I am looking for one of their kind. A Thornspeaker."

The other man, Notley, slight of build but still fiendishly tall -- a trait of all Kul Tirans, it seemed -- leaned over his drink to get a better look at her. Sylvanas did not move in the slightest, despite how close he drew. He smelled of ale and woodsmoke. There were twin falcon's feathers affixed to the edges of his cloak. Finally, realisation crossed his features. He leaned back in his seat.

"Undead," he remarked. "Don't know why your kind bother. No Thornspeaker can help you, you know."

Sylvanas frowned at him. "Nevertheless, I would speak with one."

"Why?" he asked.

None of their expressions seemed overtly hostile upon learning what she was. Wary, to be sure. But not hostile. Not even remotely surprised. As though the dead frequently walked into their frozen hamlet, which barely warranted a mark on a map.

Briefly, Sylvanas considered her chances of getting away with a lie. This crowd did not seem easily deterred, however. "I am looking for someone," she finally admitted. "One of the Thornspeakers everyone thinks died in your Drust incursion some time ago."

Sterntide grunted into his cup. Lowering it, he wiped foam from his moustache with the back of his hand. "You one of those, aren't you?"

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed dangerously, and her ears lowered just a fraction. "I do not follow."

"Had a group of hunters out here last fortnight, wanting to go trawling through the Crimson Forest." Sterntide gestured emphatically with his tankard, sloshing a bit of ale onto the bartop. "I told them, I said, 'Don't do it. That forest is protected. Eat you alive, it will.' They didn't listen." He waved his free hand dismissively, then raised his tankard of ale back to his lips. "Haven't seen them since, poor bastards."

Cleardawn joined in as well. There was a dark furrow in her brow, and the scar on her cheek creased when she spoke. "Some bloody idiots heard there was an ancient Thornspeaker born of the Wild God, Athair, living in these parts. And off they trotted to the mountains, hoping to bring it down with silver arrows. Got themselves ripped to bloody shreds by the Drust ghosts at Gol Osigr." She snorted, shaking her head.

Mace stabbed her knife into the bartop so that it stuck in place, its hilt quivering. "You know, I saw a hunter selling broken arrows down in Corlain last month? Claimed they'd been pulled from that Thornspeaker's bloody hide, and that they could fell any beast, living or dead. Sold them for their weight in gold to some sad sack of shit from Boralus, too."

Sylvanas had not come here for tall tales, but it seemed she would be subjected to them regardless. She almost wished she had taken up their offer on a drink. And that alcohol still had any effect on her whatsoever.

"I am not looking to sell pieces of the Thornspeaker off for gold," Sylvanas said. She stopped rapping her fingers against the bartop, her palm splaying out across the gridwork of carvings all across the wood grain. "I only wish to talk."

The wary expressions returned.

"What for?" Notley pressed. His free hand stroked along the fletching of a quiver at his hip, though his bow was nowhere in sight. 

"Yeah, and why not?" Sterntide added. 

Sylvanas had to stamp down the urge to roll her eyes. "Do you know, or don't you?"

Silence. And then -

"Gol Inath," Mace whispered. She had taken up the knife once again, and was nervously digging a sprawling array of antlers from the skull carving. "The High Thornspeaker lives at Gol Inath."

The moment the name of that place was spoken, a wind buffeted down the chimney, and the fire flickered and snapped. Sterntide spat over his left shoulder. Notley fidgeted with his arrows. Even the unshakeable mountain of a woman, Cleardawn, cast a nervous glance towards the hearth. 

For her part, Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. "And how do I find Gol Inath?"

"You don't," Cleardawn said darkly. "It finds you."

"How very unhelpful," drawled Sylvanas.

"Watch your tone," the barkeep growled. It was the first thing he had said since her arrival. His doughy face was ghostly pale, his expression hard as wrought iron. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know shit."

Straightening somewhat, Sylvanas grudgingly kept her tone neutral when she said, "Can you at least give me a hint? A general vicinity, perhaps?"

She tried to catch the eye of the members of the Order of Embers, but they were all looking towards Cleardawn, as if waiting for her answer, or perhaps for her permission before they spoke out of turn. For that matter, Cleardawn was watching Sylvanas with serious eyes. "I don't like sending strangers off to their death," she explained. "It's not very host-like, see?"

"I think you'll find it's all far too late for that." Sylvanas gestured to herself with a humourless smile.

Even so, Cleardawn shook her head. The smile disappeared, and Sylvanas could feel the ire growing in her chest like a living thing. Before she could open her mouth however, Cleardawn sighed. 

“Follow the old silver mines west down the cliffs." She pointed towards the western-most wall, which bore a brace of gutted hares that were tied up by their feet. "From here, you can see the great tree at the centre of the Crimson Forest. That's where you're headed. Mark me, stranger." Cleardawn leaned her bulk against the bartop as she fixed Sylvanas with a hard look. "The way may seem easy. But it isn't. Tides preserve you."

Inclining her head, Sylvanas murmured, "I shall not keep you from your cups any further."

When she turned to walk away, they did not immediately strike up their conversation again. She could feel their eyes upon her, and she distinctly heard Sterntide mutter under his breath, "Poor sod."

Sylvanas stopped in the doorway, her fingers upon the handle. She was craning her neck to study a tangle of briar thorns that had been placed over the entryway, strung with other smaller tokens. “I thought your Order was founded to combat witchcraft,” she mused aloud. She reached up to gently turn one of the tokens between her fingers. It was the yellowish fang of some indeterminate animal. A large cat endemic to the area, perhaps. 

“Aye,” said Cleardawn from the bar. “But the best way to fight witchcraft is with witchcraft. Take one with you, stranger. May it protect you, where your arrows can’t.”

Running her thumb along the blunt edge of the tooth, Sylvanas stood silently for a moment. She did not know what compelled her to do it, but she tugged the token free. The bit of twine that tethered it in place snapped. It was heavy in her palm, like a lodestone. Closing her fingers around the token, Sylvanas pushed open the door and stepped outside. 

“Cheerful lot, aren’t they?” murmured Anya’s voice. 

Sylvanas glanced over to see three pairs of eyes glinting at her from the shadows of the tavern’s eaves. She worried her thumb against the tooth’s blunted point, thoughtful. “I want to see the map again.”

Those eyes blinked owlishly. Then, Nathanos stepped forward. He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from the breast pocket of his coat, and handed it over. As Sylvanas unfolded it, she gestured for the other two to gather round. Together, they stood out of the way of the first story window of the tavern. 

“We will divide Drustvar into scouting regions. Gather information. Find me this lost heir to the Proudmoore line.” Using the tip of the tooth, Sylvanas pointed to eastern coast of Drustvar. “Anya, you will take everything from Carver’s Harbour to Fletcher’s Hollow. Nathanos, you have the mountains all the way to Gol Koval. Velonara, take Waycrest Manor to Corlain. Which leaves…” 

The fang hovered over the southwest peninsula of Drustvar. The map there had no markings titling it apart from a small town named Falconhurst at the inlet south of the Crimson Forest. The forest itself was a blank mass of branches. And at its very centre a massive tree. The locals who had penned this map had not dared to put the tree’s name to paper. As the fang circled round the tree, it seemed to push away from the location as if magnetically repelled. 

“I for one do not like this plan,” said Nathanos. His statement was met with grave nods from both Anya and Velonara. “It’s too risky. We are stronger together.”

Folding the map back up, Sylvanas carefully traced the creases in the parchment between her pinched fingers. “We are also slower together,” she said. “And we have a great deal of ground to cover.” 

She was fixed by three nearly identical glowers of disapproval. 

Sylvanas glared right back. "Oh, I'm sorry," she growled. "Did this become a democracy when I wasn't looking?"

Anya huffed. Velonara rolled her eyes. Nathanos, for his part, held out his hand for the map. Sylvanas slapped the piece of paper into his palm. 

"You have your orders," she said. "Now, follow them. We will meet back here in a week. Do try to refrain from any notions of rebellion in my absence."

"I for one make no promises," Velonara said. 

Meanwhile, Anya added, "I distinctly remember your original platform being founded on the idea of rebellion, in fact."

"Spare me the sass, you two," sighed Sylvanas. "I thought death was supposed to be peaceful."

Jerking his thumb towards the other two, Nathanos said, "And you still kept these jackals around?" He tsked and shook his head in a reprimanding fashion.

Velonara made a rude gesture with her fingers, while Anya jostled Nathanos with her very bony elbow. He bore the injustice with a grunt of discomfort. 

"Just as well you three aren't left alone together," Sylvanas muttered, not bothering to keep her voice down. "I'd come back to find the rest of Drustvar in flames."

Anya tried for a look of wide-eyed innocence, but on her impish face it only made her appear more devious. "And let Ashvane and Stormsong have all the fun?"

Sighing, Sylvanas tucked the fang into a leather pouch at her waist. "No inciting a civil war until we're well and truly ready to profit from one. Now," she waved at them as if trying to swat a swarm of flies in the air. "Go." 

They went, but not without mocking little bows in her direction, each accompanied by a murmured, "For the Dark Lady."

With a shake of her head, Sylvanas waited until they had set off before making her own way around the outside of the tavern. Behind it was a stone walkway that traced the edge of the sheer cliffs that Cleardawn had spoken of earlier. A falcon was perched atop an outcropping. Its head was tucked beneath its wing, but it rustled its feathers and peered blearily at her when she stopped nearby. It chirped at her. A length of dyed leather was bound to one of its legs, and a scattering of rodent bones lay beneath its perch. 

Sylvanas ignored the falcon in favour of looking over the cliffside. The snowfall had lessened. Only a few small white clumps drifted through the air now. Somehow it felt warmer up here than in the miserable rain of Boralus; the blanket of new snow and cloud acted as a layer of insulation. Even if Sylvanas had not been Undead, she would not have needed the luxury of a heavy cloak. 

Dug into the slope were the abandoned silvermines, their rail carts barely visible from beneath the cliff's dramatic overhang. The lengths of steel seemed to shunt to nowhere, and with a crane of her neck she could just make out that segments of the rail line had been shorn off and carted away, cannibalised by the locals for alternative use. The snow sank slowly downwards, far below, and from this altitude Sylvanas could see the point at which the air grew too warm and turned it to rain. A mist clung to the tops of trees that seemed caught in a stasis of autumn. 

Even from here, the enormous tree could be seen. It loomed through the mist, a sprawling colossus of nature. Its twisted limbs were bare and skeletal through the fog, like a mythological being that had been petrified in place, struck down by some rival god in the very midst of battle. A path cut its way from the silver mines down to the forest's edge, but there it stopped dead in its tracks, overgrown with wild underbrush and tangles of briary roses that had long since lost their blooms. 

Something rapped against her wrist. Sylvanas' head swung round sharply, only to find that the falcon had hopped down from its perch and ambled towards her along the stone railing where her hands had clenched themselves into fists. The bird was toying at a tarnished buckle of her vambrace. 

"Plucky little thing," Sylvanas muttered. Then she waved it away, and turned aside to begin her descent. 

The cliffs were broken only by a single steep slope at the edge of Arom's Stand. It was clearly marked as the road to Corlain by a lonely lantern that shed its dim light onto a signpost beneath it, scrawled in a blackletter script that had faded with age. It took longer than she would have liked to traverse the switchbacks through the silver mines. Her only blessing was that the further down she went, the more the snow receded, until she could stride unencumbered across the path. 

The ground here was marked with the grooves of merchant's carts that had traveled for years across these roads, heavy-laden with goods from Corlain. Mud congealed along the tracks, and puddles gathered in the ruts. The melted snows were a fine drizzle that misted the air, obscuring vision so that the mountains faded behind her into haze-riddled shapes. 

When Sylvanas reached the treeline, she paused. The road curved well around the Crimson Forest, giving the woods a wide berth. She lingered between the two. Her eyes scanned the canopy, where a raven watched her in turn with a steady gaze. After a moment it took flight, its strident cry sending a flurry of smaller birds scattering in its wake. She squinted, but even her heightened senses could not pierce the veil of shadow that clung to the underbrush. The woods were thickly-woven, their branches a loom that threaded together, offering no clear path forward. A hunting knife would do little in the way of hacking through that dense thicket. The broadest axe would struggle.

The cries of the raven were fading into the distance. When Sylvanas took her first step past the trees, the weight of the fang in her pouch seemed heavier, tugging at her belt with every footfall. She ignored it and ducked beneath a branch, pressing onwards. Overhead, the dense canopy began to weave together as she ventured further into the woods, until what meagre sunlight Kul Tiras had to offer could not be found in any trace.

Steadily, her eyes adjusted. Her ears pricked at any wayward sound, alert and on guard, though she kept her bow strung over her shoulder rather than firmly in her grasp. Sylvanas had spent many years of her former life traversing deep woods, and often she would dwell upon those memories still, memories of better times, some of the best in her life. If asked, she would consider herself an expert, but this was like no forest she had encountered in the past, alive or dead. 

A forest was alive. It breathed. It teemed with all manner of creatures. It had a rhythm. This place had none of those qualities. It was absolutely still. Neither breath of wind nor life. Mist clung to her ankles when she walked, disturbed by her movements, only to settle back into inaction in her wake. She was a disturbance. An unwelcome guest at a funerary rite. 

Where at the entrance to the forest, the enormous tree at its heart had towered above the others, now Sylvanas could see nothing of it. Any vantage point, any reference had vanished like smoke. She carried no compass; she had dead reckoning and had never found the need for one in the past. Something told her that even if she had thought to bring one however, it would be of little use here. Cocking her head, she continued southwest. 

The forest offered very little in the way of landmarks. The landscape here had a repetitious quality. Same colours. Same sounds. Same patterns. Once Sylvanas could have sworn she heard the rustle of something in the distance, but it was beyond her vision.

Eventually she came across a distinct clearing. It was presided over by a black and twisted ash tree -- the victim of an old fire, no doubt. Even its roots still appeared scorched. While the other trees had regrown over time, this little glade remained untouched. As she drew near, Sylvanas paused. In the centre of the clearing a wicker man had been erected. It was a larger copy of the one Sylvanas had seen at the tavern in Arom's Stand. A group of superstitious hunters must have put it here to guard them while they slept. 

Sylvanas took note of the surrounding area before pressing onwards. With near silent footfalls, she stalked the woods. The most she came across in terms of living creatures were a few unwary hares with grey coats, and the sporadic raven that croaked balefully at her from the trees. Nothing larger let itself be known however. Normally, she would have expected to stumble across the path of deer, or wild boars, or even predators that had little fear of humans in such untouched areas. But not here.

Hours passed as she walked. The space between the trees were beginning to darken as evening approached. Sylvanas glanced around, then froze.

The old flame-blackened ash tree stood, stark as a pillar, not a stone's throw ahead of her. Slowly, Sylvanas approached it once more. A wary hand strayed to the bow slung across her shoulders, but she did not draw the weapon yet. She stopped at the edge of the clearing, her fingers just grazing the handle of her bow, waiting.

The wicker man was slumped against the stick that held it upright, utterly unchanged from when she had first been here. Instead of hands, it had bear claws bound to its wrists with coils of thick flaxen rope, the kind one might use on a ship's deck. Its head had the length and shape of a wolf's skull, but for the set of antlers coronating it like a crown. The skull was tilted down and to one side, as though its maker had pushed its face away. 

Had it looked aside like that before? Sylvanas cast her mind back, but could not be completely sure. Perhaps this was a series of camps, created by hunters or whoever else dared traversed these woods. 

Sylvanas lowered her hand from the bow. She drew the silver hunting knife from her boot, and scored the withered bark of the tree. Then, sheathing the knife, she continued on her way. 

Night was swiftly upon her. In the darkness, the woods grew vast and deep. No starlight could reach her here. Not even rain. The patter of gentle rainfall had long since vanished during her wandering, but the mist remained. In life, her night vision could never have rivaled those of her cousins across the sea in Kalimdor. In death however, Sylvanas needed very little by way of light to see. Even so, there was nothing to be done about the dense vegetation that obstructed her at every turn. In some areas, the woods grew so thickly together that she had to squeeze her way through narrow gaps between trunks, and the sharp branches would snag upon her clothing, as if attempting to drag her back. 

A few more hours. She was sure she was gaining ground on her final destination, when she saw it.

The ash tree. Black as basalt. The mark Sylvanas had left in the bark was bleeding like a wound with a substance too dark to be sap. And in its bare spiny branches, a dark shape lurked with arms outstretched. 

In a single fluid motion, Sylvanas drew her bow. The fletching of an arrow was brushing her cheek, ready to be fired, but she paused. She relaxed the bowstring, lowering the weapon just slightly. A wary step forward. Then another.

The shape was unmoving. It dripped onto the ground. Quickly, Sylvanas put away her bow and arrow, and pulled flint from her pocket. A moment later she was lifting a torch towards the tree. 

A wolf had been flayed and perched in its branches, as though stored there by a shrike. Its ribs were cracked open, its belly slit, its head was missing, and its entrails spilled onto the forest floor. All but its heart, which had been staked onto the chest of the wicker man in the clearing. 

With a soft grunt, Sylvanas studied the wolf a moment longer. She removed the glove from her spare hand with her teeth, and reached out to touch it. The blood of its offal was still warm. A fresh kill. 

Scowling, Sylvanas wiped her fingers clean, put her glove back on, and strode into the clearing. The wicker man was looking straight ahead now, a watchful guardian of the empty grove. For a fleeting instant, she considered setting it alight with the tip of her torch, but some whispered misgiving stayed her hand. The urge to at least turn its head aside once more was too great however, and she nudged the skull with the toe of her boot so that it would not watch her while she made camp. 

When she had a small fire going, she pulled out a piece of parchment and retraced her steps. A few strokes here and there with a bit of charcoal from the fire, and Sylvanas had a makeshift map of where she had gone through the Crimson Forest so far. Or at least, where she thought she had gone. Everything in her body, every last scrap of experience told her that she had been travelling southwest the entire time. There were very little hills. The hills were flat for the most part, broken only by gentle slopes here and there. From memory she charted the gullies, and came to the conclusion that she must have gotten turned around at one end, so that she continued back down her path towards the ash tree on multiple occasions. 

The magic of this place would be muddying her sense of direction. That was evident. Her first course of action from here would be to find a river or stream. If it were fresh, it would be fed from the glaciers to the east. She could follow the water away from its source, and in the direction of Gol Inath. 

The fire was burning low, simmering to its bed of coals. For the first time in Kul Tiras, Sylvanas' clothes were at last starting to feel dry. She counted her luck on that front, at least. Unless there was a truly torrential downpour, she would be spared wet clothes for a while yet. 

In the dead of night, the noises of the woods were hushed but present. The ravens had faded in the wake of owls and the chirp of nocturnal insects. A few moths danced dangerously close to the flames, and the whine of some bold mosquitos ventured near, only to find her a poor meal indeed. 

Slowly, her hands grew heavy. Her wrist slumped, and the bit of charcoal dragged a ragged path against the parchment in her grasp. Sylvanas blinked against it, straightening her posture. But a few moments later, and her shoulders sinking down once more. The fire flickered limply against the weight of the night air, until even the stray sparks were pushed down into the flames. 

Sleep should not have been possible -- Sylvanas could fuzzily recall the last time she had experienced it nearly a generation ago -- but she closed her eyes, and it claimed her regardless. 

She was standing at the summit of Icecrown Citadel. The wind whipped her long cloak into a frenzy around her ankles. The balls of her feet were balanced at the very edge of the frozen fortification, and when she looked down, nothing but darkness awaited her below. Her foot lifted. She stepped forward and off the ledge. And when she fell -- down, down -- she was not met with the slam of ice and rock, but with the feeling of something catching tight around her neck and yanking, so that she dangled from the Lich King's lair like a trophy for all to see. 

Sylvanas wrenched awake with a gasp. Her chest heaved, lungs working for breath that she no longer needed. She started to reach up to touch her neck, but something crumpled in her fists. She looked down. The parchment she had been using for a map was now a mass of black -- smeared from every edge and ragged corner -- and in her other hand the charcoal had been worn down to a nub. She threw the parchment and charcoal aside. The fingers of her gloves were grimy with dark ash. 

At her feet, the fire had burned down to a bed of pink and white coals. They shed a feeble scarlet light onto her surroundings. And across from the coals, the wicker man cast a looming shadow against the trees. Its skull was turned directly towards her, and the hollow sockets of its eyes gleamed in the dying light. 

Scrambling upright, Sylvanas kicked dirt over the coals until they were smothered. Then, she snatched up the quiver and bow from the ground where she had left them within arm's reach. Fastening them across her shoulders once more, she glowered at the woods. They stood impassively. She aimed a last glare at the wicker man, which seemed to stare back at her. 

Sylvanas bared her sharp teeth and hissed softly, “Stay out of my head.” Then she kicked the skull back to the side to stop it from looking at her, and strode from the clearing. 

Dawn was not far off. An hour or two of brisk walking, and the trees seemed to lighten in colour somewhat, so that the low-slung mist that pervaded the forest brightened. She stalked through it viciously, her eyes burning as tendrils of fog swirled around her feet. 

She headed dead south. A completely new direction today. At least if she went too far and somehow passed by Gol Inath, she would wind up in Falconhurst. From there she could gather more intel from the local farmers and trappers, before heading back into the forest. 

The gullies in this direction grew steep. More than once, Sylvanas had to gingerly pick her way down the slopes, or risk making enough noise to alert every predator of her presence from here to Corlain. She knew now that there were wolves in these parts. Even if the only one she had seen so far had been killed by unknown hands. 

Nearly the whole day she walked. Never pausing. Never relenting. She sought a water source -- there must be one; there must -- but even the most meagre of streams eluded her. Eventually she abandoned caution. She pressed through the trees with a recklessness that would have gotten her scolded by her mother as a child learning to hunt for the first time. 

Whereas the day before the woods had treated her with a cold indifference, today they seemed guarded. As though she were being observed by a massive crowd of people who muttered in disapproval about her presence. Once or twice, Sylvanas could have sworn she saw something moving at the corner of her vision -- an enormous shape slouching between the trees. Her ears would cock forward in search of any noise, and her head would whip around, only to find nothing. But always the unpleasant feeling lingered. Of being watched. Of a hand reaching through the dark to grasp her shoulder and wrench her round. 

After hours and hours of trekking, Sylvanas clambered up a steep incline, then went stock still. 

That damn ash tree. Again. The wolf was still there. Its entrails were gone. Bloody smears were dragged along the ground from the base of the tree. Something must have come along and eaten the offal. And of course, the fucking wicker man was there, too. 

Swearing -- not bothering to keep her voice down -- Sylvanas scowled up at the tree. It was growing dark again. A whole day. Wasted. 

She fumed. She paced the clearing. She pulled the fang from her pouch and rubbed it between the fingers of one hand. Then, she dropped down on her haunches in front of the wicker man to glare at it, close enough that her nose was but a finger-breadth away. 

"I am growing rather tired of this game," Syvlanas growled.

The wicker man of course made no reply. 

That night she dreamt of Frostmourne. The blade plunged beneath her ribcage while she knelt in a field of golden flowers. And when she slumped to the ground, she was drowning in a sea of petals. They got into her mouth, into her throat. They filled her lungs until she choked on golden blooms. 

She awoke panting for air, and her initial bout of panic seethed into fury. Coils of her banshee form curled from her body like black smoke. The fire she had built a few hours ago spluttered when she rose to her feet, shadows gathering close around her. The wicker man watched in stolid silence. 

Sylvanas snarled something wordless, the noise echoing. Her hands were clenched into trembling fists. The fang dug into her palm until it began to pierce the glove of her clawed gauntlet. Without thinking, she hurled the little witch’s token at the wicker man in a fit of anger. 

The fang never reached its intended destination. No sooner had it left her hand, than it fell back at her feet, as though it had bounced against an invisible wall, or been buffeted back by an unseen wind. 

Sylvanas blinked. Slowly the anger boiled low in her stomach until it was just a metallic taste on the back of her tongue instead of the wild thing that gripped her jaws. She reached down, hesitated a moment, then picked up the fang from the ground. Turning it over thoughtfully between her fingers, she looked between the fang and the wicker man. Then, she tore a thin strip of cloth from her cloak. She used her knife to bore a hole through the thickest section of bone, and looped the fabric through until the fang hung from a knot. 

When she held it up to the wicker man, the fang pushed away at the end of the length of cloth like a pendulum. 

“Well, well…” Sylvanas murmured. She pulled her hand back so that the witch’s token hung normally from her grasp. “It seems I have a compass after all.”

If Sylvanas had thought the Crimson Forest an untraversable warren before, her mind was not changed now. In one hand she held the makeshift compass aloft like a lantern. It would swing wildly about with every step, always pushing away from the heart of the woods. The further she ventured, the more the fang strained at the end of its strip of cloth, as if trying to drag her back to safety. And with every step she ignored its warnings, pushing ever inwards. 

Her ears pricked at the first sound of trickling water, and not long after she came across a stream. It was small enough for her to step across, but she felt triumphant nonetheless. Any change in scenery was welcome. Especially if it meant she didn’t have to cross paths with that wicker man again. 

The next time she did, she would stuff it full of arrows. 

As time went on, the sensation of being watched only intensified. The ravens ruffling their feathers upon high branches were eerily quiet. Something rustled through the underbrush, the sounds animal-like at first, only to prove itself a breeze when Sylvanas inspected the source more closely. 

And then the fang began to spin in circles, like a needle skipping over a track. Sylvanas glanced down at the slope beneath her feet, looking around to get her bearings. Another little hillock protruded from the ground not far off. And another beyond that. It was then that she realised they were not hills at all, but roots that had been grown over with earth. 

Stuffing the fang back into its pouch, she continued to climb. The roots levelled out, and gradually the trees began to thin. She could see patches of sky riddled with a scarlet haze from the light of the setting sun slanting through the atmosphere. The fog slithered along the ground here, flowing past Sylvanas in slow ripples. The sound of rushing water grew louder and steadier. She hastened her step, her hand straying to the bow, drawing it from her shoulders.

In the epicentre of the forest, Gol Inath sprawled. Waterfalls flowed beside it, feeding pools of water that shed the mist that pervaded the woods. The colossal tree’s bulging twisted limbs were bare and grey. So broad was its trunk, a hundred men could not hope to encircle it. And at its very base, a pointed stone arch had been built, fragments of stone staggered along the path leading to it like a series of broken tombstones to a monument. 

The air here was heavy. The taste of it lingered on the back of her tongue like the tang of copper. Cautiously, her eyes scanning the clearing for any hint of movement, Sylvanas stepped forward. The path to the enormous tree was clear, but every instinct urged her that this was a lie. With every step closer, she waited for an attack to come, until she stood directly before Gol Inath, peering into its hollow trunk.

The space beneath the archway was a black beyond black. She could just make out stairs leading down into the ground beneath the tree. In the stones above the entryway, runes had been chiselled. They glowed with a spectral blue light that pulsed with a slow steady rhythm, as though they were breathing. 

Sylvanas lifted her foot to take that first step inside, when a voice echoed around the clearing, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

In a blur of motion, Sylvanas whirled about, nocked an arrow and pulled it back, ready to fire. She aimed down the shaft of the arrow, but nobody stood behind her. The clearing was empty. The only other noise was the series of waterfalls, which splashed against rocks and gnarled roots. 

“I see you are no different from the other hunters, then,” said the voice again. Its owner sounded weary, feminine, and slightly bored. 

Sylvanas shifted her grip upon the bow. Then, warily, she slackened her bowstring. She lowered the weapon, but did not put it away, her fingers holding the arrow steady. “I am looking for someone. I was told you trained her. Assuming you are the High Thornspeaker, of course.”

Silence. When the voice spoke again, it seemed to come from a different angle, and Sylvanas’ head snapped around to follow it. “It’s rare I receive new pupils, though not completely unheard of.”

“Not recently, no. You would have trained her years ago.”

This time, the silence seemed contemplative. Curious, even. A breath of wind stirred behind her, and when Sylvanas turned around once more, a tall figure stood beneath the stone archway of Gol Inath. A sickle-shaped staff was clutched in one clawed hand that appeared to be made of the same wood as the staff. The woman’s face was obscured by an antlered skull with teeth far sharper than a deer ought to have. Her broad shoulders bore a fine mantle of woven feathers and leaves, dark as the forest itself. 

“Strange,” said Ulfar, her voice a wine-black murmur beneath the mask. “You are not a member of the Order of Embers, yet you bear one of my tokens."

The fang was a steady weight in Sylvanas’ pouch. “One of the Order gave it to me as a parting gift.” Sylvanas lowered her bow fully, then placed it and the arrow over her shoulder. She studied the glowing runes carved into the skull’s antlers, similar to those carved into the archway. A multitude of tokens and charms wrought from stones and thorns and animal bones were clustered at Ulfar’s belt, or hidden among the folds of her clothing. Sylvanas nodded towards them. "They told me you were the High Thornspeaker, but they failed to inform me you were also a witch."

Ulfar’s hand tightened around her staff, and the skull swung round. The fathomless sockets of its eyes stared at her in a menacing way. "I am not a witch," came the hissed reply.

Raising her hands, palm up, Sylvanas said, “Peace, Ulfar. I meant no disrespect.”

Ulfar cocked her head to one side in a curious tilt. “Your information is outdated, stranger. I am not Ulfar. He is no longer with us. I am his successor.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Then what should I call you?”

“Jaina.”

* * *

* * *

_title from:_

> _“In my body you search the mountain for the sun buried in its forest. In your body I search for the boat adrift in the middle of the night.”_
> 
> _— Octavio Paz, from Counterparts (tr. by Eliot Weinberger)_

* * *

* * *

a map for people who don't play WoW and want to know what Drustvar looks like (sorry for you folks on mobile):


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this was supposed to be a horror story and not a comedy

The sun was beginning to set in earnest. It slanted through the vasty boughs of Gol Inath. Everything was cast in a fading lavender hue, which slowly slipped to something darker. The runes carved into the archway seemed to come alive in the gathering shadows. Overhead, a few ravens wheeled in circles, while others still perched in watchful silence. The eyes of nocturnal animals lurked through the underbrush along the outskirts of the clearing, and though she and the High Thornspeaker were the only two people present, Sylvanas could not help but feel that they were not alone. 

_“You’re_ Jaina Proudmoore?” Sylvanas could not keep the disbelief from her tone. 

Rather than be muffled by the skull, the sound of Jaina's voice seemed to reverberate from within a cave of hollow bone. “I don’t recall telling you my family name. That and the fact you thought I was Ulfar means I’m obviously the one you’re looking for. Why?”

Sylvanas let her gaze rove across Jaina. She had been expecting a slip of a girl. Maybe twenty years old. But while Sylvanas could not see Jaina’s face, her hair was mostly white, streaked with gold, and pulled into a braid over one shoulder. “You’re older than I thought you’d be.” 

“An intruder _and_ a flatterer. Will wonders never cease?” There was a surprising flair of dry humour in Jaina’s words. “Now, I am even more puzzled. Did I kill you?”

At that, Sylvanas let loose a snort of laughter. “No.”

“Well, that’s good. Otherwise this would be awkward. Or -- well -- _more_ awkward, anyway,” said Jaina. When she shifted her weight, Sylvanas glanced down. It was then she realised that Jaina’s bare feet, like her hands, seemed to be carved from the same wood as her staff. “Were you hoping I could reverse your…” she waved a clawed and wood-gnarled hand towards Sylvanas. “... _unique condition?”_

It was so reminiscent of Katherine -- the movements, the phrasing, the timbre of her voice, the overall mannerisms -- that Sylvanas no longer harboured any doubts that this was, in fact, Jaina Proudmoore. Or at least someone very closely related to the Lord Admiral. Good enough. 

Shaking her head, Sylvanas said again, “No.” 

“That's a relief. Because it would be nearly impossible.”

Sylvanas stared at her. _“Nearly?”_ she repeated, incredulous. 

“There are some rare exceptions to the rule. I can’t recommend it, to be honest.” Jaina made a dismissive little gesture, as if she couldn’t be troubled with complex explanations of death magic. “If I didn’t kill you, and you don’t want me to fix your Undeath, then why are you looking for me?”

It was tempting to drag the conversation back towards those ‘rare exceptions’ spoken of, but Sylvanas resisted the curiosity gnawing at the base of her neck. She realised she was biting the inside of her cheek with a thoughtful narrowing of her eyes, and put a stop to it. Lifting her chin, she nodded towards Jaina. “Everyone thinks you died.”

“Who’s saying they’re wrong?”

Sylvanas scowled. Not for the first time, she wanted Jaina to remove that damnable skull so she could see her face. “You look very alive to me.”

The curved end of the staff tilted towards Sylvanas in an all encompassing gesture. “I could say the same of you. Appearances can be deceiving, as we both know.” The skull lifted slightly, drawing closer as though Jaina were sniffing the air. “When did you die? Four years ago? Five?”

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas said, “Over a decade ago.”

“Well, that can’t be right. The grave smells more recent on you.” 

“I think I would remember my own death,” Sylvanas said dryly. Then she added with a sneer, “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

Shrugging, Jaina lowered her grip upon the staff so that her stance appeared more relaxed. “I have as much a right to ask you a few personal questions, as you do to barge into my home with drawn weapons.”

Sylvanas pointed to the tree and their surroundings. “Your forest is a nightmare. I was simply prepared for the worst. And besides,” she shrugged at the bow over her shoulder. “I did not shoot you.”

“Your restraint is admirable.”

Sylvanas nodded. “Mmm. Yes. I thought so, too.”

“And after I’ve been so rude to a guest, as well,” Jaina drawled. “However shall I repay you?”

“A formal introduction might be a good start.” 

“It seems you don’t need one. You already know my name. I’m the only one here still in the dark.”

Lifting her open hand, Sylvanas placed it over her own heart. It was an elvish military salute, and something she had never been able to rid herself of no matter how many years had passed. “Sylvanas Windrunner.” 

Jaina did not return the gesture in any regard. "So, Sylvanas Windrunner. You’ve found me. Now, what do you want?”

“Your mother sent me.” 

The lie came easily to Sylvanas’ lips. Jaina’s head jerked as though she had been struck. Her grip upon the staff tightened once more, and Sylvanas swore she saw a glint of eyes through the skull’s sockets, like the glimmer of cold and distant starlight.

“An intruder. A flatterer. And now a liar, too.” The darkness of Gol Inath’s hollow seemed to gather at Jaina’s back, like a protective shroud or a display of something else. Impatience, perhaps. Or a growing ire. “I am seriously beginning to reconsider my decision to not kill you. For good, this time.” 

In response, Sylvanas lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. “Then I count myself fortunate to have such a merciful hostess.” 

Slowly, Jaina moved forward, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The shadows clung to her as she moved. She was tall without the antlers, but with them she seemed that much more imposing. Her face remained hidden behind the mask, but the skull followed Sylvanas with an unblinking stare. And then Jaina had stepped past her. She looked out at the waterfalls plunging over the roots of Gol Inath. "Even if you weren't lying -- which you clearly are -- why would my mother send an undead elf runt to find me?"

Sylvanas bristled, but refused to rise to the bait. Still, she moved forward to stand at Jaina’s side. "The Lord Admiral’s political rivals circle over her. Civil war is coming to Kul Tiras."

"That doesn't sound like my problem."

"I should think civil war affects all Kul Tiran citizens. That includes the Drust."

Jaina continued to face the water, refusing to acknowledge that Sylvanas had moved at all, as though utterly unconcerned with her guest's presence. "A key prerequisite of being a Kul Tiran citizen is having the ability to own land. The Drust haven't been allowed to own land for nearly three hundred years."

"You would let Drustvar fall into the hands of a rival House on a technicality?"

"I have no intention of letting Drustvar fall into anyone's hands but my own."

This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. Jaina was supposed to be young, naive, optimistic, easy to manipulate. She was not supposed to be...whatever this woman was. Calm. Confident. _Bored._

That last one in particular stung. Sylvanas was used to people finding her many things, but boring was not one of them. 

Sylvanas crossed her arms and glowered out at the waterfalls sending up the thick preternatural mist that slunk through the Crimson Forest. "Last I checked, the region was ruled by Lucille Waycrest. Not you."

"What was that about technicalities again?" Now, Jaina just sounded amused. "Lucille and I have an understanding. She may live in Waycrest Manor with her Tides-given titles, but we all know who really controls Drustvar."

"You think Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane care about your little arrangement? All they see is a target." Sylvanas pointed to the skull, drawing a circle in the air with her finger as though painting a bull’s eye. Jaina did not move in the slightest despite this intrusion. "Your position is weak. Lucille will be toppled, and your 'understanding' will be in shreds within a few years."

"Let them come."

This air of calm self-assurance was starting to grow tiresome. Mostly because Sylvanas half-believed what Jaina said to be true. Almost. That was by far the most irritating thing. 

She launched her next words like a barb. "Your mother is dying."

Whatever reaction she had been expecting, it wasn’t for Jaina to nod solemnly. "Yes. I imagine she is,” she mused, looking out over the water. “Everybody dies. I didn't think I would need to lecture a corpse about that."

Sylvanas had to stop herself from grinding her teeth. She could feel the muscles in her jaw bunch together regardless. "She needs you. Kul Tiras needs you."

Jaina snorted and shook her head in a rustle of bone and leaves. "My mother sent me away when I was twelve years old. My father refused to speak my name after I’d left until the day he died. And Kul Tiras would never accept me given my background. I am too much like the thing they fear, now. They do not want me."

"I never said Kul Tiras _wanted_ you. I said they _needed_ you. They need an Heir to House Proudmoore."

"Then they should have thought of that before they let my father send my brother to the gallows in Unity Square. Tandred was the last Heir to House Proudmoore. Not me."

"Do you really want the Navy to be commanded by the likes of Lady Ashvane? Or Lord Stormsong?" Sylvanas snapped.

_"Hang the Navy."_

It was the first time a hint of a growl entered Jaina’s words. The sound was low and rumbling and far too animalistic to have been made by the human voice. Sylvanas’ ears pricked up slightly. She straightened her shoulders, her eyes coal-bright and curious. Finally. An opening. Something she could use. 

“Ah, yes. I’d heard about your brother.” Sylvanas tapped at her chin. “Something about helping the Horde, wasn’t it? Such a shame that your father did not look kindly upon acts of philanthropy to those in need.”

At last, Jaina turned her head to look at her, and it felt like a victory just to have her attention. “Are you in need of my _‘philanthropy’?”_ she sounded incredulous. 

It was Sylvanas’ turn to pretend to be aloof. “No. But as the Warchief of the Horde, I am always seeking alliances that will make us stronger.”

Jaina twitched in surprise, and the skull tilted to one side as though she were studying Sylvanas with far more interest. "You're no orc."

"I see Kul Tiras really has been living under a rock for the last decade,” said Sylvanas with a huff of wry laughter. “The Horde is far more than a gaggle of mindless orcs these days."

Now, Jaina had turned fully towards her. More progress. "And yet you died over a decade ago, you said? Which implies you are a product of the Scourge.” 

The empty space within the crook of her sickle staff burned with a bluish light, and the air suddenly reeked with the smell of arcane magics. Sylvanas tensed. Her hand made an abortive jerk towards her bow, but then the brief crackle of energy died away.

Jaina hummed a thoughtful note. “I don't sense anything demonic about you."

Still tense -- wary and ready to act upon a moment’s notice -- Sylvanas lowered her arm. "I make a point of not sharing my head with anyone. Especially where demons or liches are concerned."

"Finally, something we can agree on." Gesturing between the two of them, Jaina asked, "And what exactly would you get out of this proposed alliance?"

Sylvanas flashed a grin. "A friend."

At that, Jaina grunted. Silence descended as she chewed over the idea. "You're charming…"

Sylvanas' grin widened slightly.

"...but not _that_ charming." Jaina straightened to her full height, which was fiendishly tall. Far too tall for Sylvanas’ tastes. Humans had no right being able to loom like that. "What do you really get out of this? And don't give me that bullshit about friendship."

The grin slipped from Sylvanas’ face, replaced instead by an expression that was more exasperated than anything else. "You really are your mother's daughter, aren’t you?” When Jaina’s only reply was to quietly glare at her, Sylvanas relented. "I want Kul Tiras to open its borders to the Horde."

“And is that all?” Jaina pressed.

“Would I lie to you?”

“You already have. Several times, I might add.” Jaina tapped her thumb against her staff. The motion rattled a cluster of crows’ skulls at her waist. “How do I know you're not working with Ashvane and Stormsong already?"

Baring her teeth, Sylvanas said, "Because if I were, I wouldn't have approached your sacred tree alone. I would have come with an army to burn it to the ground."

“You really do have a way of endearing people, don’t you?” Jaina said, not the least bit impressed. “No wonder my mother threw you out on your ass. That is what happened when you approached her with this proposition, I assume?”

Sylvanas glowered, but said nothing. It was answer enough.

“Of course, it is.” Jaina’s laugh was a low chuckle of amusement. “Why would I help you?”

“The goodness of your heart,” said Sylvanas, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone. 

Jaina scoffed. “You’re not a shipwrecked orc in need of hull repairs. You’re a war profiteer.” 

“I had hoped you would be swayed by some manner of loyalty to your dying mother,” said Sylvanas, but the low blow did very little it seemed. 

“Don’t pretend to care about my mother, Warchief Windrunner.”

“Pretend?” Sylvanas repeated, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, she invited me to the Keep for a cup of tea. If she were in better health, we could have reached an understanding.”

“If she were in better health, she would have shot you,” Jaina said dully. 

“Whatever helps the negotiation process,” Sylvanas drawled with a wave of her hand. Then she leaned a little closer, trying to peer past the impenetrable shadows of the skull’s eye sockets, searching for any hint of Jaina’s face. “Haven’t you thought about what you could do as the Lord Admiral?”

Most people would have leaned away or taken a step back upon being in such close proximity with a walking corpse. Jaina on the other hand remained perfectly still. “I am happy where I am now.”

“Are you?” Sylvanas stepped forward. They were close enough to touch, but Sylvanas stopped just before that point. The skull tilted slightly, as though Jaina were having to lower her chin to continue looking at her. “If you became the Lord Admiral, you could change the laws of Kul Tiras. No more raids. No more witch burnings. No more unfair press into the Navy’s service. You could give back lands to the Drust that were confiscated when your very own ancestors arrived here in the first place. Think of it as -” she shrugged, “- reparations. Making amends. Setting things right once and for all.” 

There. A pause. A hesitation. The smallest gap in Jaina’s proverbial armour. If Sylvanas did not have such acute hearing, she would have missed the slight hitched breath beneath that mask. 

“Hmm,” said Jaina. This close, Sylvanas could hear Jaina’s exhalation brush against the plate of bone in front of her face. It was barely audible over the rush of water and the slough of a breeze through the surrounding foliage. “I still don’t trust you.”

Placing her open hand back over her chest, Sylvanas tried for an air of sincerity without appearing mocking. “Then allow me to prove my good intentions, Lady Proudmoore.”

Jaina made a noise as though she had just bitten into something sour or rotten. “Don’t call me that. I’m not _that_ old.”

“High Thornspeaker is a bit of a mouthful.”

“They have the same number of syllables,” Jaina pointed out, but she sighed nonetheless. “Jaina, then. If you must.” 

“Very well, _Jaina,”_ Sylvanas let the name linger on her tongue. “Give me a small temporary outpost in Drustvar, and I promise to be nothing but the most humble and respectful of guests. At any time, you may call upon me as needed, or send me away. Whichever you prefer.”

For a long while, Jaina said nothing. As their conversation had progressed, the air around them had grown dark. The moon was a sliver of liquid gold upon the horizon, peeking over the wild canopy. The ground here was littered with small bioluminescent flowers, which gathered closest around the great tree, glowing softly in time with the runes over the arch and those carved into the mask’s antlers, as though they were all connected by a single woven thread. When Jaina took a step back and turned away, the ground lit up at her feet. The small bioluminescent petals clustered within her footsteps so that she seemed to leave a trail of pale fire that faded in her wake. 

She did not go very far, only striding a few paces off to sit upon one of the stones half-buried in the ground at the base of the tree. The moment she touched the stone, the marks etched into its surface lit up like a lantern. Jaina paid them no heed. She sat. She rested her staff on the ground beside her. She crossed her legs and idly bounced her foot up and down as though deep in thought. 

One of the ravens swooped down from its branch to land on Jaina’s shoulder, and she waved it away. “Not now, Adalyn,” she admonished under her breath.

The raven cawed a loud complaint, but it flapped away again. Except this time it landed on a lower branch nearer Jaina, and fixed a beady black eye upon Sylvanas. 

Finally, Jaina turned her attention back on Sylvanas. “No hunting,” she said, holding up her hand to tick items off on her wooden fingers. “No fishing. No mining. No forestry. You will have a minimal presence. All civilian. No military. And you will stock no arms or ammunition either on shore or within twenty leagues of it.” 

“Agreed,” Sylvanas said without any hesitation.

“I will speak with Lucille. You’ll have your outpost within the fortnight. Though,” Jaina added, “you might consider keeping your head down. If my mother gets wind that you’ve established a presence here behind her back, there will be hell to pay.”

“I will be meek as a field mouse,” Sylvanas swore. 

Though Sylvanas could not see it, she had no doubt Jaina just rolled her eyes. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” Her foot continued to bob as she spoke. "Arthur will escort you back to Arom's Stand. It will be quicker with him showing you the way."

Sylvanas looked around the empty clearing. "Who?"

As if in answer, one of the smaller ravens wheeled down from the branches of Gol Inath. It landed on the ground a few paces away from Sylvanas. And then it shuffled its feathers, and began to grow. There followed a series of unpleasant snaps and groans, as though a tree were being felled, and then a deer was standing in the raven's place. Except it was like no deer Sylvanas had ever seen before. It appeared to be made partly of plant, and partly of bone and flesh. Its legs were clawed twisted trunks, and the collar of fur around its neck was a ruff of leaves. Sylvanas could see glimpses of pale ribs through its sunken skin, and glowing glyphs were tattooed into its flank. 

"Hi!" the deer said. "It's me. I'm Arthur. Nice to meet you."

The voice was most definitely coming from the deer, though its mouth did not move in any way. Its eyes were filmed over with the pale blue of death, but the deer flicked its tufted tail in a very lively manner. 

Slowly, Sylvanas looked up at the trees, at the numerous ravens eyeing her from their perches. Even at the gazes of nocturnal creatures that blinked owlishly at her through the underbrush. She tried counting them all, but soon lost track. Suddenly, Jaina's earlier threats about putting Sylvanas in the ground for good did not seem so empty. 

"I wasn't aware we had an audience." Sylvanas nodded to the trees. "You might have told me."

"To be honest, you came right in the middle of a lesson. One which I'm keen to get back to. You have very bad timing." Jaina shooed her away. "I will check in on you in a few months. And if you don't keep up your end of the bargain: I'll know."

"What if I want to speak with you sooner?"

"You still have my token. It will guide you safely through the forest just as it did before."

With a sour grunt, Sylvanas' hand drifted to the pouch where she kept the scrimshaw fang. She thought on wicker men and bad dreams. Perhaps instead, next time she would just go to the forest's edge and talk to the ravens until they fetched Jaina for her. 

Plastering on a false smile, Sylvanas bowed low at the waist. "The hospitality of the Drust is as infamous as they say. Thank you, High Thornspeaker. This meeting has been enlightening."

"Next time, let me know you’re coming, and I'll be sure to put on a pot of tea," Jaina said dryly. 

The raven from before, the one called Adalyn, had hopped down to a branch closer to Jaina, glaring over the High Thornspeaker's shoulder like a dour little body guard. Sylvanas was sure she had seen the same expression on Nathanos' face. 

Syvlanas turned towards Arthur. The deer was pawing at the ground with one clawed and cloven hoof. 

"Hop on up," Arthur's voice said. 

Sylvanas' brows furrowed. His back looked very spiny and not at all comfortable. "I don't suppose I can get a saddle?"

"I mean -?" Arthur started to say, glancing over at Jaina.

"Don't demean yourself Arthur," Jaina said. 

Arthur stamped his back hoof, and said to Sylvanas. "Sorry. No can do."

Muttering under her breath, Sylvanas hoisted herself easily onto his back. She shifted atop him, but couldn't find a good seat no matter what she did. 

"Ready?" he asked.

Before she could answer he started off on a bouncing trot away from Gol Inath. Behind them, Sylvanas could have sworn she heard laughter chasing after her, but perhaps that was simply the cry of the ravens. 

As Arthur picked up the pace, he said, "You might want to hold on."

"To what?" Sylvanas growled. 

He tossed his head, and she grabbed onto a tine of his antlers. Soon, his steps turned into leaps and bounds. He was sure-footed and swift, easily traversing the forest. Even so, Sylvanas was forced to hunker down low on his back to save herself from getting whipped by the passing branches. 

She missed her skeletal horses. They may not have been as fast, but at least they had saddles and didn't talk. And Arthur talked. Arthur talked a lot. 

"This is so exciting," he said as they raced along. "We haven't had outsiders at Gol Inath in -- well -- forever! And now all this talk about the Admiralty and invasion? Do you think we're going to have a big fight?"

A branch sailed right for Sylvanas' face. She ducked. "That depends," she said through grit teeth. 

"I've never been in a battle before.” He sounded excited at the idea, proving just how young he really was. “Killing constructs and undead at Gol Koval doesn't count."

His accent lacked the burr that other Drustvar inhabitants had. Sylvanas tightened her grip upon his antlers. "You don't sound like you're from Drustvar. How long have you been training as a druid?"

"Oh, I'm from a fishing village in southern Tiragarde Sound," he replied. "I joined the Drust a few years ago. My parents found me in the garden one winter. We didn't have enough food, so I'd made the squash patch grow right through the snow. For people like me, options are limited. You can go to the Monastery or join the Navy. Except Tidesages don't really do nature magic like that, you know? And life at sea isn't really for me. So, here I am."

Sylvanas mused over that for a moment. The silence did not last long however. Soon, Arthur was yammering away again. Some incessant drivel about how much he liked being with the Drust. How the change in his life had been dramatic but ultimately fruitful. 

Sylvanas made non-committal noises as he talked. Then, she interrupted, "How long has Jaina been High Thornspeaker?" 

"Four years, I think? Three? By the time I came around, she was already Ulfar's star pupil."

"And he chose her as his successor?"

"Oh, no. Not really. It just sort of happened during the fight with Gorak Tul. They went to Thros and -" Abruptly, Arthur cut himself off. His bounding gait slowed to a canter. "I'm not really supposed to talk about that."

"You can tell me,” she crooned sweetly. “We're allies now, aren't we?"

"I don’t know,” Arthur said, his tone uncertain. “Jaina would be mad at me."

"Does she get mad at you often?"

"Oh, no. She's very patient with me. Way more patient than my parents, or that recruiting Lieutenant from Boralus. I hated that guy.” Arthur slowed to a stop. “Hey, can you do me a favour?”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. "What kind of favour?"

When Arthur tossed his head, she was forced to let go of his antlers. "There's this -" He twisted his head around, his ears flicking back. "- really itchy spot on my neck."

Glowering, she hissed, "I am not your scratching post."

"Oh, come on. Please?" 

"I don't know why Jaina bothers with talk of demeaning yourself. Look at you."

He had twisted around, head lowered, so that he could scratch at his neck with one of his back hooves, like a dog trying to scratch behind its ear. Sylvanas had to cling to his back to keep from falling off and onto the ground. Briefly, she wondered how mad Jaina would be if she killed him, and then decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. 

"I will walk the rest of the way," she grumbled, but before she could slide from his back, he sighed.

"Okay. Got it." He straightened, and then shook his head with a huff of irritation. "Thanks for nothing. Geesh." 

Sylvanas' gaze burned scarlet as she glared at him. However, Arthur was either immune to the sense of immediate danger, or he really was that oblivious, for he continued on his way, chatting happily. This time, Sylvanas did not offer any noises to indicate that she was listening. She seethed in silence. 

The forest around them looked exactly the same as it had when she had first entered it. Thankfully, they did not pass the burnt ash tree and the wicker man, though Sylvanas watched for it, as though fully expecting to be dropped back into the nightmare loop that had been her life for the last three days. Arthur probably would have answered any other questions she posed, but she did not want to encourage him. Not that he needed it. 

Finally, after the longest few hours of her undeath, they reached the edge of the Crimson Forest. Dawn was a sliver cresting over the hills, painting the sky a pale pink. The moon still hung like a pendant at the throat of the world over the sea to the south west. Sylvanas lifted her head to peer up the cliffs directly ahead of them to the east. From here, she could just see a glimmer of lantern light from Arom's Stand high on the saddle of the mountain pass. 

Arthur slowed his pace, but continued trotting onto the road, clearly intending to carry her all the way back up to Arom's Stand as per his instructions. But Sylvanas leapt nimbly from his back. Her boots squelched in the mud of the road. 

Prancing around her, Arthur said, "Something wrong? If you needed to stretch your legs, you could've just said something."

Sylvanas bit back the urge to say something scathing. Instead, she began to stride along the road. "I will make my way from here. Thank you, Mr...?"

"Tradewind," he replied.

"Thank you, Mr. Tradewind."

"Don’t worry about it. You can call me Arthur.” He stopped in front of her, blocking her path. “And are you sure? I don't mind, and that hill is steep."

Teeth clenched, Sylvanas walked around him. She waved him away. "I am fine."

“Suit yourself.” 

She did not hear him bound away. There was a rustle behind her, the strident cawing of a raven, and he was gone in a flap of wings. 

It did not take long to climb the slope to Arom's Stand. The snows had melted slightly in her absence, though the further up the mountains she went, the deeper it became. The sun rose in time with her own movements up the hill. Soon she was bathed in the golden glow of daylight. The sun was a mixed blessing. The season was warming, but with it came the sludge of snowmelt mingling with the mud of the road. 

A falcon wheeled overhead. She paid it no heed, until it started circling her position. Then, she frowned up at it. When it circled lower until it was just a few meters above her head, Sylvanas sighed.

"You didn't have to send anyone else after me," she said to the sky. "I've left your damned forest."

"Are you talking to a bird?"

Sylvanas blinked. She turned to find Nathanos striding towards her from off the road. Of course. There were few people who could sneak up on her. Nathanos and her dark rangers were among them. 

As he approached, Nathanos put away his bow. "I am glad to see you unharmed. I shall have to tell Anya her coup is a no go."

"Very funny," Sylvanas growled. 

No sooner had he spoken Anya's name, than she and Velonara appeared on the nearby crest of the hill. They were followed by Notley from the Order of Embers. A furrow creased Sylvanas' brows when she saw that they flanked Notley as though he were a prisoner.

"Trouble?" she asked Nathanos. 

Nathanos seemed unrepentant. "We were worried for your safety, my Queen. Notley is a falconer, and we merely -" he trailed off for a moment, then shrugged, "- requested his immediate services."

Tilting her head back, Sylvanas looked incredulously between him and the falcon. The falcon itself was swooping back towards its master, who lifted his arm clad in a thick leather glove up to the elbow. Anya and Velonara were lengthening their strides now, leaving Notley behind so they could reach their Dark Lady's side. 

"I was only gone three days, Nathanos," Sylvanas admonished, as Anya and Velonara drew close enough to hear. "You panicked like a bunch of old hens."

"Three?" Velonara repeated.

"You were gone _nine days,"_ said Anya. 

Staring at them, Sylvanas shifted her gaze to Nathanos. He nodded. "When you did not arrive at the tavern in Arom's Stand on the seventh day, we tried to go into the forest after you."

"And how did that go for you?" Sylvanas asked.

"Not well," said Anya with a tone as dark as her expression. 

Trudging towards their little group, falcon on his arm, Notley said, "I told them not to. But they refused to listen. Said they were going to gut me like a fish if I got in their way."

Neither of the rangers nor Nathanos gave any indication that this was true. Then again, they did not deny it either. 

Sylvanas tsked in faux admonishment. “That’s no way to treat our newest allies.”

Of the four, the one who looked most surprised at this declaration was Notley. “You -?” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though the forest below would eavesdrop. “You found the High Thornspeaker?” 

A silent meaningful glance was shared between Sylvanas and Nathanos. She smiled, baring a hint of fangs. “I did."

* * *

True to her word, Jaina had arranged an outpost for the Horde within two weeks. During that time, Sylvanas and her rangers stayed in Corlain rather than suffer the indignity of the tavern at Arom's Stand for a moment longer. 

Not that Corlain was much better. It was the kind of town where the sad grey market every weekend was considered the height of culture by the locals. Sylvanas had seen less grim affairs in the sewers of the Undercity. The people of Drustvar were as accommodating as those in Boralus, which was to say: reticent to outsiders. Still, they did not chase the undead away with torches and pitchforks, which was an improvement on some of the places Sylvanas had visited in her lifetime. 

After thirteen days however, Sylvanas was stirred from her chair at the local inn by a rapping on the rain-lashed glass. When she went to open up the window, a filmy-eyed raven hopped inside the windowsill. 

"Finally," Arthur said, fluffing up all of his feathers so that he resembled a black hand duster. He shook his tail out. "Do you know it's pouring out there? I should have transformed into a duck instead, but Jaina keeps telling me it's not _'dignified.'"_

"When will she learn that you're a lost cause?" Sylvanas drawled.

"Right?"

Rolling her eyes, Sylvanas said, "Well?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah." Arthur made a sound as though he were clearing his throat, and he perched a little straighter. "Lady Waycrest has agreed to give you the Eastern Cliffs. It's an abandoned settlement near the lighthouse of Falconhurst."

Sylvanas sighed. "Wonderful. More impassable cliffs."

While this entire conversation was going on, Anya and Velonara had stopped their game of whist at the table. They had somehow managed to procure a deck of cards only a few hours after their arrival in Corlain, and picked up the game with a cunning and alacrity that had many of the locals cry foul. Which, in the locals' defense, Sylvanas reckoned was probably true. Velonara's hand was frozen mid-play, a card held between her fingers. They were both staring at the sudden conversation between their despot and a bird. 

For his part, Arthur's head cocked, and he hopped a little closer towards their table. "Hey! This lady's cheating! She's got some spare cards up her sleeve!"

Anya's deathly pale cheeks went faintly blotchy. She glared daggers at the raven. "Permission to shoot the bird, Mistress?"

"Permission denied," said Sylvanas. 

Throwing down her own hand, Velonara snatched Anya's wrist and wrenched the cards that had been stashed up Anya's bracers. 

Sylvanas ignored the ensuing squabble in rapid-tongued Elvish behind her, like the hissing of angry snakes. She turned to Arthur. "Is there anything else?"

"Do you have a towel? Can you give me a quick rub down?"

"That was a rhetorical question, Arthur."

"Yeah, well, mine wasn't. I had to fly for hours to get here, and I'm soaked."

Rather than dignify this with a response, Sylvanas shooed him back towards the windowsill and shut the window. He squawked at her indignantly from the other side of the glass, before he was ultimately driven off by the rain. 

It took another two weeks to bring in hand-picked members of the Horde to fill the outpost. Sylvanas had already sent word back to Orgrimmar of her plans, and a list of suitable candidates had been drawn up at her request. The small ship -- something harmless enough to slip past the Kul Tiran Navy patrols by pretending to be a neutral fishing vessel -- landed at Falconhurst on an auspiciously sunny day. The sun was a wan yellowish circle behind a thin layer of clouds. It felt like the first time Sylvanas had seen sunlight in years, even though it had been only been a few weeks of incessant rain. 

A handful of Forsaken and Tauren stepped off the ship and onto shore. The local fishermen on the docks did not give them more than a passing glance. As per Sylvanas' orders, the Tauren -- all of whom were druids -- arrived in various animal forms. Neither they nor the undead were considered an odd sight in Drustvar. Indeed, the most difficult part about keeping a low profile was trying to encourage her more zealous Forsaken followers that they needn't erect banners with her symbol upon them. This slight to her glory seemed to cause a few of them physical pain, and more than once she had to order Nathanos to go around at night to tear down a few tabards from the walls of their encampment. 

Less than a week had passed before Velonara was clearing her throat to get Sylvanas' attention. 

"What is it?" Sylvanas did not look up from where she was fletching a series of arrows. She had been forced to purchase the feathers from a hawker Falconhurst, who had been curious as to why she did not simply hunt for pheasant herself. He quickly nodded in understanding when she explained she would not hunt anywhere near the Crimson Forest, however. There was even a small discount offered for her supposed piety. 

"There are two women watching us from the tops of the cliffs," Velonara explained. 

Sylvanas tied off a section of gut around the fletching. "And you haven't scared them away yet? You're losing your touch."

"One of them claims to be the Lady Lucille Waycrest. She is demanding an audience."

Now, that did get Sylvanas' attention. She glanced up from her work. "Demanding? Is she, now?" Finishing off the arrow, she set it down and then rose to her feet. "We shouldn't keep one of our hosts waiting, then."

It was a quick walk up the switchback road leading over the saddle of the cliffs. Waves thundered against the shore below. Their outpost was placed on a small outcropping that was sheltered by a man-made shoal with a lighthouse erected at its very end. At night it almost appeared as though the lighthouse were floating above the tides. Now, the wind-battered lighthouse was peering out at the dusk-washed sea like a lantern. 

Most of the locals from Falconhurst avoided the Eastern Cliffs apart from a few fishermen, who favoured the docks. And yet, two dark shapes were standing near the cliff's edge. They were peering down at the outpost below. Over the whipping of the wind, Syvlanas could barely hear their murmured conversation. 

Sylvanas announced her presence by allowing her foot to kick loose a stone on the path. Both of the figures turned. One was carrying a lantern. She lifted it into the air, peering through the impending gloom of twilight at those who approached. 

"Lady Waycrest, I presume." Sylvanas stopped a few paces away, and tucked her arms behind her back in a comfortably militant pose. "I understand you wished to speak with me."

"You presume much, but in this case correctly," said the woman holding the lantern. Her hair was dark, and her clothing fine. She studied Sylvanas with pursed lips. "I wish you'd approached me before approaching the Drust."

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow. "Oh? I was under the impression I was welcome here."

Lucille's mouth thinned even more. "You are. For now. But it is bloody inconvenient, you know, having you lot strolling about under Jaina's wing, while I'm kept in the dark."

With a nonchalant shrug, Sylvanas said, "Your arrangement with the High Thornspeaker is your own. How you go about your business is none of my concern. So, unless you're telling us to leave, we have very little to discuss."

"That's not what we're here for." Drawing herself up -- she was short for a Kul Tiran, which meant she was only slightly taller than Sylvanas and Velonara -- Lucille gestured to the woman beside her. "I've been told you already know Mace?"

Sylvanas' eyes cut through the darkening air. Mace was fidgeting with the daggers sheathed at her waist. Her palms moved restlessly over the pommels until the metal was burnished smooth and bright. Her red hair was unmistakable. When Lucille gestured towards her, Mace inclined her head, her movements jerky, as though she had to remind herself to be deferential. 

"I do," Sylvanas said slowly. 

"Jolly good. I'm assigning her as an escort to your outpost," said Lucille. She turned to Mace. "No starting fights. No knives in backs. And report to me on their activities every fortnight."

Meanwhile, Sylvanas's shoulders went rigid. "I beg your pardon?" she growled. "You will do no such thing."

Lucille frowned in her direction. "It's only fair," she said, her voice holding the hint of a whine. "Jaina is having you watched."

"She isn't," Sylvanas insisted flatly. 

"Then what is that?" Lucille pointed over Sylvanas' shoulder.

Sylvanas turned to follow where Lucille was indicating, and spied a large raven shuffling along the branch of a nearby tree. The bird seemed to notice their attention upon it, for it went very still all of a sudden.

Eyes narrowing to crimson slits, Sylvanas raised her voice. "Is that you, Arthur?"

"What?" said Arthur. "No! No, I'm just a normal raven."

"Normal ravens don't talk, Arthur."

"Oh. Right. I mean -! _Caw! Caw!"_

Sylvanas had to unclench her teeth before she could speak to Lucille again. Her clawed gauntlets creaked, and she relaxed her hands. "A trade then. You leave Mace here, and take Velonara back to Waycrest Manor with you."

"What?" hissed Velonara at Sylvanas' elbow, too low for the humans to hear. Sylvanas slanted a dangerous glance in her direction, and Velonara fell silent. 

"Fine," agreed Lucille after a moment of thought. "Fair's fair. Just know that if she puts a knife between my ribs, Jaina will drown everyone at your little outpost."

"I'm well aware," Sylvanas drawled.

For some reason, that made Lucille relax. She even smiled. "Oh, excellent. That's settled, then. Welcome to Drustvar, Warchief." Then, she nodded towards the ranger standing attentively at Sylvanas' side. "Velonara, was it? I have two horses stabled at the inn in Falconhurst. We can ride north towards the manor in the morning. I hope you don't mind a pinch of sightseeing. I have a few errands to run along the way."

Velonara said nothing. Indeed, she gave no indication that she had even heard Lucille speak to her. She was too busy glaring awls into the back of Sylvanas' head. 

The tip of Sylvanas' ears twitched slightly in annoyance. "Are you going to answer Lady Waycrest?"

Velonara's expression remained implacable, but her voice was stiff when she inclined her head towards Lucille. "I will meet you at daybreak."

Satisfied, Lucille strode off towards Falconhurst. Her step was unerring, if loud. The soles of her boots seemed to find every twig along the road. The moment she was out of earshot, Velonara rounded on Sylvanas. 

"I don't like this," she said in a low tone. "We are in hostile territory. You need a proper guard detail, and you were already under-protected when you decided to leave your Deathguards in Orgrimmar."

Sylvanas smiled as a pretense to bare a bit of fang. "I am more than capable of protecting myself. Besides," she gave a wry wave towards Mace, "I have a new bodyguard now."

As the conversation had continued, Mace had squatted down on the ground. She had procured a small block of wood from somewhere, and was now busy whittling away at it with one of her daggers. It took her a long moment to realise that both Sylvanas and Velonara were now watching her in silence. Her knife slowed against the woodgrain. She blinked up at them blankly. "Huh?"

"Yes, she seems very alert," Velonara muttered darkly. "I'm so relieved." 

"Don't forget me," said Arthur from his branch. "I'm still here."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sylvanas sighed. 

* * *

The next morning, Velonara left with Lucille back to Waycrest manor with strict instructions on sending back reports on the latest political and military movements every week. Nathanos and Anya took the news of the trade about as well as Velonara did, which meant that Sylvanas was forced to endure extra Forsaken guards around her quarters at the Eastern Cliffs at every hour of the day. 

Arthur also took the discovery of his presence to mean that he no longer needed to hide. He made a habit of roosting atop the first story eaves of the building that Sylvanas used as both personal quarters and a command centre. He would chatter away at her undead guardsmen, pestering them with questions and stories. 

Even worse, her guards cracked and eventually began to talk back to him. 

Sylvanas was pouring over a series of reports on the latest treaty update from Zandalar one evening, burning the midnight oil, when she first heard it. 

"So, wait -- you eat bodies? Why?" Arthur's chirpy voice was unmistakable over the sound of the waves against the nearby cliffs. 

There followed a rustle of chainmail rasping over a bony shouldered shrug. "It heals us. Makes us whole again."

"Woah. Really? Can you show me?"

A dry chuckle. "That's not the reaction we usually get, kid. But sure."

Tossing down the report onto the stack of paper on her desk, Sylvanas pushed back her chair, its legs scraping loudly against the wooden floorboards. She stormed over to the front door, and yanked it open. Immediately, her two guardsmen jerked to attention, their normally stooping backs ramrod straight.

Sylvanas glared at them and hissed. "You will refrain from developing a rapport with the bird. Understood?"

“Yes, Dark Lady,” one of them said.

“Of course, my Queen. Forgive us,” said the other. 

Sylvanas then aimed her glower upwards, where Arthur was poking his black-feathered head over the side of the thatched eaves. "Isn't it time for you to deliver your report to Jaina?"

Arthur's milky white eyes blinked at her. "Probably. How many days has it been?"

"Do you want me to write your reports, too?" she growled. 

"Would you? That would be really helpful."

"You are a terrible spy." She waved an irritable hand at him. "Go home. Before I let Anya shoot you."

"Someone's grouchy today,” he remarked, but took flight before Sylvanas could make good on her threats.

She glared after him, following his flight path until he was no more than a black speck disappearing over the hills. When she turned her attention back onto the guards, they gripped their polearms even more tightly. 

“Where is the other one?” she asked.

One of the guards lifted his hand and pointed with a flensed finger. Slamming the door shut behind her, Sylvanas stalked in that direction. It did not take her long to find Mace. As far as spies went, she and Arthur could not have been worse at their jobs if they tried. Mace spent her days throwing stones into the sea, or talking to the local fishermen, or hurling knives at a target dummy made out of a flour sack filled with straw. She never spoke with the undead more than necessary. Any time Anya or Nathanos reported her talking with members of the Horde was when she would question the Tauren about the Cenarion Circle and the Moonglade. 

Sylvanas found her sitting on a stump beneath the deep eaves of the command centre. Her back was turned to Sylvanas, and she gave no indication that she noticed her presence. Mace was hunched over something in her lap, and various trimmings heaped at her feet.

Standing behind her, Sylvanas watched as Mace’s hands bound three sticks together with twine into a roughly human frame. Next, she gathered dried leaves and twigs around the frame, tying them into place by circling the ball of twine in key sections. She worked methodically. Her restless disposition was well-suited to this kind of constant activity. 

When she was nearly finished, Sylvanas nodded towards the little wicker man. “What do they do?”

Without looking up, Mace shrugged. She was completely unsurprised by the sound of Sylvanas’ voice directly behind her. “Dunno. She likes them, though.”

“Who?”

“The High Thornspeaker.” 

The wicker man was beginning to take shape. Mace bulked it out with more leaves and twigs. It lacked any kind of head. Briefly, vividly, Sylvanas could remember the wicker man in the forest with its watchful skull. A skull which seemed, in retrospect, a near exact copy to the one Jaina wore. 

"What do you do with them when you've finished?" 

Mace grunted around a twig in her mouth, taking it and lashing it into place along one of the wicker man's legs. "Leave them at the edge of the forest, usually. They disappear in a few days. She takes 'em, see? Or, if you have to make camp, you stake one of these at your feet while you sleep. Protects you from ghosts and constructs and, y'know -" Mace waved a withered leaf at Sylvanas. "- banshees and the like."

"And you want to put one in my outpost as a housewarming gift," Sylvanas sneered. "Lovely. Thank you."

Unperturbed, Mace put the finishing touches on the wicker man. She bound the last bit of twine into place, and then weighed the wicker man between her hands for a final inspection. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I am sleeping here surrounded by you lot. I'll take what I can get."

Reaching down, Sylvanas snatched the wicker man from Mace's grasp. "This thing -" her voice was low and dangerous, "- will not save you from me. And I will not have it anywhere near my personal quarters."

Mace tongued the inside of her cheek. Then, she nodded towards the wicker effigy. "Don't like it much, do you?"

Sylvanas’ hand tightened around the wicker man until she heard the creaking of twigs and leaves. She straightened, forcing her fingers to unclench. Without the bear claws and a skull, this effigy was far less ferocious than its counterpart in the Crimson Forest. Still, it made her skin crawl to touch it. 

She looked between the wicker man and Mace. Her eyes narrowed to crimson slits. “Do you have any Drust in your family line?”

“My uncle Tavery,” Mace replied. She was shuffling around the supplies at her feet. Eventually she picked up a piece of wood, and began carving it with a knife. 

Sylvanas turned the wicker man over to study its construction. Mace had woven the twigs and leaves in such a way that they all interlinked over the effigy’s chest, as though framing its lack of a heart. A space to be filled by grim offerings. Sylvanas stroked her thumb over the area. “Tell me about Gol Inath.”

Shoulders tense, Mace hunched over her knife. She shot Sylvanas a wary glance over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t -- You shouldn’t say its name aloud so easily.”

“What is it?” Sylvanas repeated, impatiently enunciating every syllable. 

“The sacred tree. The entrance to Thros.”

“And what is Thros?”

Mace scowled at her. “Why are you asking me all these damn questions? If it’s information about the Drust you want, you should ask them. Not me.”

Gesturing with the wicker man, Sylvanas said, “Indulge me.”

For a moment Mace said nothing. She fiddled with the handle of the dagger, then turned back to whittling the small block of wood in her hands. It was beginning to take on the shape of a shaggy bear. “The Blighted Lands. A nightmarish place where nothing grows.” She gave the dagger a particularly vicious flick, tearing off a chunk of wood. “Hell, Warchief. Thros is Hell.” 

* * *

If there was one thing Sylvanas was very good at, it was being patient. She had waited to lure Arthas into a trap, pretending to be under the yoke of his will even when the Lich King’s powers had begun to wane. She had bided her time in joining the Horde, ensuring the alliances of both the Forsaken and sin’dorei. The living wanted everything urgently and immediately. On some days she could still feel that itch scratching just beneath her sternum, but today was not such a day.

She sat behind her desk at the Eastern Cliffs. Its surface was littered with papers and documents, bits of parchment with her notes scrawled across them in spidery lines. And though the watery sunlight of Kul Tiras washed through the windows of the building, the hearth was lit, more for light than for warmth. She had very little need of warmth these days. 

A map of Kul Tiras was spread out before her, its curling edges weighed down with various items -- an inkwell, a dog-eared book, a jar of sand for drying wet ink. Standing at the opposite side of the table, Nathanos leaned over and pointed to the map. “According to Velonara, Lady Waycrest has levied troops at Fletcher’s Hollow to fend off the Ashvane forces seeking to take the mines and foundry in that area. She has also sent troops to garrison Fallhaven, as it is the largest settlement in Drustvar that is accessible by sea. Drustvar has very few ships of their own, and certainly none that can rival the Great Fleet.”

Sylvanas’ elbow was propped on the chair of her arm. She curled her fingers into a fist and leaned her cheek upon it. “How many souls has she levied?”

He straightened and answered. “Fifteen thousand.”

Studying the map, Sylvanas hummed. “Not bad for a nation that traditionally doesn’t field an army.”

Nathanos gave a condescending little sniff. “It is nothing compared to what the Horde could muster at a moment’s notice.”

“Perhaps,” Sylvanas murmured. “But who needs an army when the only way to your land is by sea?” Reaching out, her hand drifted over the map towards Tiragarde Sound. She tapped her finger against Boralus. “And what about our beloved Lord Admiral? What has she been doing these last few weeks?”

“I have received news that she was visited by an Alliance envoy.”

Sylvanas glanced sharply up at him. “Anyone we know?”

“Genn Greymane.”

At the very sound of the name, Sylvanas’ lip curled. _“And?”_

“And Katherine sent him away as well.” Nathanos’ beard twitched in a smug smile. “She wanted nothing to do with the Alliance either.”

Sylvanas laughed, the sound sharp and short. She settled back in her chair, a smile still playing across her lips. “So, she sent the dog running with his tail between his legs. I knew I liked her.” 

Nathanos’ own smile faded. “Why haven’t we told her about finding her daughter alive? If it’s the Admiralty you want, we should be trying to curry their favour and uniting them.”

With a sniff, Sylvanas said, “You have no sense for the dramatic, Nathanos. You would be a very poor theatre performer.”

He offered a small bow in reply. “You flatter me.”

She let loose a gentle huff of laughter, turning her attention back to the map. “No, we wait. We let the Ashvanes tie their own noose. What will the people say? When the daughter of their beloved war hero, Daelin Proudmoore, returns from the grave to liberate the nation from a usurper House?” Sylvanas curled one loose corner of the map between thumb and forefinger. The parchment began to tear slightly, the rip aiming up between Drustvar and Tiragarde Sound. She studied it a moment, and then pulled her hand back. “Why, I think it might just be a cause for a celebration.”

“You mean: a _coup,”_ Nathanos said.

“What’s a good party without a little bloodshed?” she said wryly. “Besides, I hear Kul Tirans are the brawling type. Think of it as a cultural experience. We are -” Sylvanas fluttered the fingers of one hand as though searching for the words. “-forging stronger ties with our future allies.”

“I am leaping for joy on the inside,” Nathanos replied in his flattest possible tone. “And if the Alliance should approach her daughter? What then?”

“They won’t.”

“You underestimate their cunning.”

“No, I predict their weakness.” Leaning back, she propped her feet atop a clear corner of the desk, crossing her legs at the heel. “The old wolf or SI:7 might approach Jaina, but their Little Lion wouldn’t allow them to go through with any plan they concocted between them. He could never stomach something so underhanded.”

“And this High Thornspeaker? What if she sought them out herself? Presuming she ever deigns to set foot outside of her forest.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I have my doubts.”

The way Nathanos said that gave Sylvanas pause. She shifted slightly in her seat to face him more fully. “About what, pray tell?”

For a moment, he hesitated. He seemed to mull over his words carefully before beginning. “Forgive me, my Queen, but no one else has seen her, or even heard her voice. I have sent scouts into the Forest -- every week for the last two months -- and always they return empty handed. Confused or scared witless. Some claim to have been hunted like a wild animal through the woods. Some rave about men made of bone and moss chasing them. Some say there is a tree strung with carcasses at the heart of the forest, and that its guardian is a bloodied stag crowned with stars.” He held his gloved hands palms up, showing that they were empty. “None of them have ever seen a woman as you described her.”

“Do you think I was as addled by the forest as your scouts?” she asked in a voice that was dangerously calm.

He inclined his head. It was not a nod, but a sign of subservience. “No. Of course not. That we have been given this outpost is proof enough that you encountered someone -- or something -- which swayed the Lady Waycrest.”

“But you don’t think it was her.”

Sweeping a hand over his heart, Nathanos said, “You do not have me by your side to be trusting of others, my Queen. And I think it is very convenient that we found her alive. Too convenient, in fact.” He kept his head bowed as he spoke, but his gaze held her own with unflinching conviction. “How do we know this isn’t some spectre or illusion? How do we know we aren’t being played for fools?”

The rear legs of the chair creaked slightly beneath Sylvanas as she shifted her weight. Her eyes strayed to the hearth, over which the wicker man had been hung. Its limbs were scorched. She had tried to burn it after speaking with Mace, flinging it into the fire as more fuel, but it had resisted her efforts. So far there had been no forced nightmares in its presence, but Sylvanas remained wary of it all the same.

She thought back on that meeting in the forest. Gol Inath. A congregation of ravens. Shadows and mist and a faceless woman whose tongue was as sharp as her mind. The memory should have seemed dream-like, but it wasn’t. Even dwelling upon the memory now, it were almost as though she were transported back to the entrance of that tree; the smell of it pervaded her senses like a familiar but long-forgotten scene. As though she had rummaged through her mother’s vanity as a child and happened upon a used vial of perfume. 

“Your suspicions are not misplaced,” Sylvanas assured him. “But she is real. I am sure of it.”

At the gentling of her tone, he lifted his head. “Then if she is real, how do we know she will be up to the challenge? Druids are dreamers. They make poor leaders. Always with their heads in the clouds or the trees.” He tapped the side of his own head for emphasis. 

“This one is different. She’s -” Sylvanas made a face. “- terribly practical, actually.”

He scrunched up his nose in a look of minor disgust. “I was not aware that was possible for a druid.”

She hummed wordlessly in agreement.

“Still,” Nathanos said. “I doubt the Navy will follow someone who never emerges from their life of seclusion and mysticism. Regardless of their name. If I don’t believe she is real, then the average Kul Tiran won’t either.”

Now, that _was_ a problem. As far as Sylvanas could tell, Jaina seemed content to act behind the scenes, all while letting Lady Waycrest take the centre stage. 

“Then we must lure her out,” Sylvanas said. 

“With what bait?”

Again, her eyes strayed to the wicker man. Lowering her feet back to the ground, Sylvanas stood. She rounded the desk and crossed over to the fireplace. Her face was illuminated by orange flames as she reached out to pick up the wicker man. “Leave that to me.”

* * *

Sylvanas left the Eastern Cliffs without an escort, much to the annoyance of Nathanos and Anya. The sky was dark and boiled with clouds, and not even a hint of starlight could shine through. The promise of rain was heavy upon the air; Sylvanas could almost taste it. For all that it was a still night, a calm night, and -- most importantly -- a rainless night. 

When she arrived at the edge of the Crimson Forest, a raven soared overhead and landed in the lower branches of a nearby tree. 

"Do you want a ride?" Arthur asked.

Sylvanas' step did not falter. She pressed on, walking into the woods with the fang dangling from her outstretched hand as though it were a lantern clearing her path of shadows. "No," she said.

Arthur flew to another tree ahead of her. He shuffled his wings and watched her course. "Can I sit on your shoulder at least?"

"No," she said again, more emphatically this time. 

He cawed, which she took to mean he was annoyed by this imposition. She did her best to ignore him, but it was difficult to do so, when he continued flapping from branch to branch, hopping along after her and not bothering to keep himself hidden. 

"Did you follow me the last time as well?" Sylvanas asked.

"No," Arthur replied, his voice fading somewhat as he sailed over her. "Tavery wouldn't let me. Thought I'd give myself away immediately."

Well, they were right about that, at least. Sylvanas refused to engage in any further conversation with Arthur, despite his best efforts. He was far too curious for his own good, pestering her with questions about her station, her state of undeath, how she died, how the Forsaken 'lived' -- for lack of a better word -- how they had overthrown the Lich King's iron will. 

Sylvanas kept her eyes fixed upon the fang. She followed its path unerringly.

Eventually, Arthur said, "You're going the wrong way."

Sucking in a deep breath to calm herself, Sylvanas stopped. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "I was under the impression that this thing -" she shook the fang where it dangled from her hand. "- would always lead me to Gol Inath."

"Oh, it will. But you're looking for Jaina, right? She's not at Gol Inath right now."

"And you couldn't have told me this sooner?" Sylvanas growled. 

Arthur shook his tail feathers in an offended manner. "Hey, I offered to give you a ride. It's not my fault you didn't want my help earlier."

Stuffing the fang into her belt pouch, she glared up at him. "Show me."

Immediately, Arthur swooped down from his branch and landed on her shoulder. His claws scrambled for purchase against her pauldron, and he flared his wings to steady himself as he sought to get a good grip. Before he managed to do so, his feathers smacked Sylvanas on the side of the face a few times. She leaned her head to one side, fuming silently to herself.

"There! Phew! Okay." Arthur folded his wings against his back. "Jaina's with Athair and Athainne. Go west."

Sylvanas turned and started walking.

"No, your other west."

Gritting her teeth, Sylvanas continued on the other way. Arthur continued to chirp directions in her ear, happy and at home on her shoulder despite the incredibly ugly looks she would cast his way from time to time. 

At last, they came upon a clearing in the woods. It was nowhere near as vast or impressive as Gol Inath, but it had its own quiet majesty. The trees here thinned. Will o' the wisps danced around their trunks, their bluish light casting no shadows in an eerie array. More life than Sylvanas had seen anywhere else in the Crimson Forest abounded here. Rabbits and lambs gambolled. Jet-black foxes with white-tipped tails scampered from Sylvanas' path at the sight of her. A pack of wolves lifted their lazy heads to watch her pass by, but went back to sleeping beneath the outcropping of a den dug into the gentle hillside. Stationary owls turned their golden eyes upon her, and red-breasted nightingales dipped and darted a few paces above the ground. Predators and prey alike gathered here, and none seemed very concerned with one another. 

And at the centre of the clearing, Jaina was conversing with a stag and doe. Her voice was too soft to overhear, even with Sylvanas' keen ears straining to catch the slightest syllable. The stag was pale as moonlight. Its antlers gleamed. It stood larger than any deer Sylvanas had encountered before; she could lift her hands above her head and still not hope to touch its withers. The doe beside it had a coat of purest black, which seemed to drink up any surrounding light until it appeared to be a void in the shape of a deer. 

Both creatures turned to regard Sylvanas steadily when she drew too near. She stopped. Jaina glanced over as well, her skull mask omnipresent even now. Without preamble, Arthur took flight, winging through the air and landing on Jaina's shoulder. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear, while she nodded and murmured a reply. Then, she took him from her shoulder and perched him atop the stag's antlers. The stag's tufted tail twitched, but it gave no other indication that it noticed Arthur's presence. 

Jaina walked over, leaving Arthur and the two Wild Gods behind her. Her every other step was punctuated by the end of her staff touching the earth, and sending up a spiral of greenery in her wake. 

Sylvanas nodded in greeting and asked, "Do you always wear that?"

Drawing to a halt a pace away, Jaina tilted her head. The skull mask was as impassive as ever. "Think of it as a symbol of office."

"Do you plan to ride out against the Ashvanes wearing a horrible deer skull?"

"I had, actually. Yes."

"And I thought I was bad at politics," Sylvanas drawled. 

Jaina's voice was impatient when she spoke. "What do you want, Warchief?"

"To talk."

For a long moment Jaina regarded her in silence. Then, she said, "Well? Talk."

There was the temptation to be just as short with Jaina as Jaina was with her, but Sylvanas held her tongue. "You're not like most druids I've encountered in the past."

"No, I imagine not."

When Jaina was not any more forthcoming, Sylvanas sighed and reached behind her. Jaina tensed, but Sylvanas only pulled the singed wicker man from where she had tethered it to her belt. Sylvanas waggled it back and forth, the way one might motion with a doll to scare children.

Jaina's shoulders relaxed, but she made a sound of wordless irritation. "Why have you brought me this?" 

"I heard you like them." Sylvanas held out the wicker man. "Personally, I don't see the appeal. But to each their own." 

In the short time they had known one another, this was the first time Sylvanas had seen Jaina hesitate. Slowly she reached out to take the wicker man, and Sylvanas noticed that her hands were no longer made out of wood. Instead, they were sheathed in pale, calloused, living skin. A glance downward proved that the same was of her bare feet. Their soles were scuffed with dirt, but otherwise unremarkable. 

Jaina's fingers traced over the scorch marks across the wicker man, as though she were inspecting a bruise upon a child's knee. "He looks a little worse for wear." 

"He lost a scuffle with the fireplace." 

Jaina snorted. She shook her head. "Do you even know what these are?" 

"No," Sylvanas answered truthfully. "A ward, I imagine." 

A thoughtful hum escaped Jaina at that. She touched the place where the wicker man's heart was supposed to be, the blank patch where all the twigs and leaves intersected. "Sometimes, yes. They can be guardian effigies. Sleep inducers. Dream totems. Soul cages, though very rarely. Sometimes they are just the centerpiece of a festival rite. But regardless of their use, they are always an instrument of worship.” Jaina tucked the wicker man away, and it vanished beneath her heavy cloak. “Thank you. I shall treasure him.”

Sylvanas could feel her ears pin back at the idea that this was some offer of worship. “I did not make it,” she said quickly.

Jaina shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. You were a participant nonetheless.”

“I was the one who tried to burn it,” Sylvanas pointed out.

“Oh?” Jaina laughed softly at the admission, and Sylvanas had to stop her hands from curling into fists. “Funny you should think that removes you from the equation.”

Holding out her hand, Sylvanas took a step forward. “I wanted it away from me, but if it’s going to reveal anything to you, then I want it back.”

“Too late. It’s already gone.” Jaina flourished her cloak to prove just that. “Do you think it would show me what I haven’t already seen?”

Sylvanas froze. 

Now it was Jaina’s turn to move forward. She drew close, peering down at Sylvanas, who glowered steadfastly in return. The points of the skull’s antlers appeared dark and crusted with old blood, as though they had gored an animal to death. “Your dreams are very violent, Warchief," Jaina murmured. "How many times have you died? Twice?”

Baring her teeth, Sylvanas growled, her voice slipping to a dark two-toned rumble, “Stay out of my head.”

Something in the air shifted, and suddenly Jaina did not appear so looming. She shrugged, but did not step away. “Very well. I won’t pry any further.” Taking the staff in both hands, Jaina leaned her weight upon it, her pose relaxed. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Sylvanas scowled. She could feel the shadows slithering beneath her skin, the venom of anger an acrid taste at the back of her mouth. Swallowing it down was a practised action, something she had done a thousand times. And always it was difficult to not let it take root. Her face became as blank and mask-like as Jaina’s before she spoke. “I could not help but notice that the Ashvanes have already made moves to the southeast. Based on my scout reports, you are going to need additional support.”

“Your concern is touching, but I am more than capable of defending Drustvar without the help of the Horde,” said Jaina.

“You and Lady Waycrest have levied quite the impressive little force. I’ll grant you that. But armies need more than promises and dreams.” Sylvanas rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, the tips of her gauntlet rasping against one another, metal against leather. 

With a snap of her fingers, Jaina caused a grasping vine to sprout from the ground at their feet. It twined around Sylvanas’ ankle, but did not hold her fast. “I can grow enough food to ensure the army is fed through even the most bitter winter.”

“I’m not talking about food. I’m talking about money.” Sylvanas kicked her foot free and ground the vine beneath her heel. “You think soldiers and sailors follow Lady Ashvane -- or your mother, for that matter -- because they want to be fed pork and biscuits three times a day for the remainder of their sad lives? Do you think they like freezing aboard a third rate on the northern run to Kalimdor?”

The skull cocked to one side, and Jaina sounded amused. “Are you hoping to bribe me?”

“Normally, yes. Though I know you aren’t the type to be swayed by the promise of coin.” Clasping her hands behind her back, Sylvanas lifted her chin. “No. In fact, I was hoping to buy something from you.”

Jaina tapped one finger against the staff, thinking quietly to herself before saying, “And what do you want to buy?”

“Another outpost. Think of this as paying rent.” Sylvanas dragged her toe along the dirt to smooth the vine out of the way, as though marking a line between them. “You give me land, you let me develop a minor presence elsewhere in Drustvar, and in return I help your war effort.” 

“Hmm.” Straightening, Jaina nodded. “Very well. But your presence is to remain strictly civilian. If I get wind that there are soldiers or munitions in your outposts -”

“You won’t,” Syvlanas interrupted before she could finish.

Jaina made a disbelieving noise. “That remains to be seen.” She lifted her hand, and Arthur flew over to land upon her forearm. “Take our guest to Swiftwind Post, that abandoned fane northwest of Fletcher’s Hollow.” 

Sylvanas thought back to the map on her desk at the Eastern Cliffs. “That’s very close to the foundry being invaded by the Ashvanes. Are you expecting me to send my people in blind?”

For some reason Jaina thought that was funny. “Perish the thought,” she said. Then she added, “It’s good defensible high ground. Difficult to assault. Your people will be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

In a flap of wings, Arthur moved from Jaina’s arm to Sylvanas’ shoulder. This time at least he managed to get a good grip without making a complete nuisance of himself.

Jaina made an inquisitive noise before saying, “Arthur, why aren’t you giving her a lift?”

“She doesn’t like it,” Arthur explained. 

Jaina turned her attention to Sylvanas, waiting for an explanation. Sylvanas had to keep her expression carefully neutral, though the force of her scarlet gaze could strip paint from the hull of a ship. “Can you at least do me the courtesy of sending someone else to spy on me? Anyone else.”

“No. I trust him,” Jaina said simply. “And believe it or not, he is an excellent judge of character.”

Hearing those words, Arthur puffed up his feathers proudly.

“Fine,” Sylvanas snapped. “I’ll do this my own way.”

She held out her hand parallel to the ground, the fingers of her clawed gauntlets splaying wide. The last time she had summoned a skeletal mount in Drustvar had been at the very fringes of shoreline nearest Tiragarde Sound. The death magic had come easily, eagerly. Now, when Sylvanas’ magic reached into the ground, silence was her only reward.

Scowling, she tried again to no avail. 

Arthur shuffled a little closer to her ear and said in a too-loud whisper, “Is something supposed to be happening? I feel like something is supposed to be happening.”

“Shut. _Up,”_ Sylvanas hissed at him through grit teeth. Shadows gathered at her outstretched palm, but the earth refused to budge. Eventually, after another futile effort, she dropped her hand with a wordless irate snarl.

“A good try, really,” said Jaina, who had watched the whole thing in silence. “But here in the heart of Drustvar, you’ll find that the dead answer only to me.”

Stymied and fuming, Sylvanas bit back a sharp retort. Instead, she turned heel and stalked away without another word, while Arthur gave her unwanted directions back towards the Eastern Cliffs. And as she strode off, she wondered if Nathanos hadn’t been right all along, if this place was even worth the trouble. The thought was met swiftly with the idea of the Alliance getting their hands on the Great Fleet of Kul Tiras, and Sylvanas lengthened her stride with purpose. 

Even if she was bound to lose eventually, she would be twice-damned before she let the Alliance win.

* * *

At least Swiftwind Post didn’t have the incessant sea spray rusting everything it touched. Instead, it had -- true to its namesake -- near constant gales. The native heath of Drustvar painted the surrounding countryside in stark browns and purples as far as the eye could see. Winds swept the plains, rippling across the tussock and bare weathered stones of the steep hills that dotted the area. Atop each hill, a series of large and ancient stones had been arrayed into circles. Whatever carvings they had once borne had long since been stripped away by the harshness of time and the elements. The ruins stood starkly against the pale grey backdrop of the sky, like a series of broken teeth, or the fingers of giants clawing their way from an untimely grave. 

The Horde flight masters could often be seen struggling to coax giant eagles into their wooden shelters. Sylvanas had been insistent that they use the native birds rather than give themselves away by importing foreign wyverns all the way from Kalimdor. More than once, several Tauren had to rush about after a goblin flight master dangling from the halter of an enormous eagle, which in turn was struggling to navigate the squalls that rolled over the top of the rocky crag. 

Anya complained about the wind nearly every day. Her claims were not unfounded. She would grumble about how her bow and arrow were near useless in this area, which of course resulted in the topic of Sylvanas needing more guards to protect her from potential threats on her life. The proximity of Fletcher’s Hollow and its skirmishes between House Waycrest and Ashvane made both Anya and Nathanos insufferable. They insisted on shadowing their Dark Lady’s every footstep, until she could hardly walk without stepping on one of them.

After weeks of enduring this, Sylvanas was just about ready to kill them. Again. 

“Please tell me Lady Waycrest has finally driven away those Ashvane raiders,” Sylvanas groaned, rubbing at her temples. “These people can’t be that incompetent, can they?”

She was seated at her desk in one of the hastily built, low-slung structures atop Swiftwind Point. A Tauren druid had stooped to enter the front door. With a bow, he handed her a parcel of letters and reports all bundled together with twine and oiled parchment. She murmured her thanks, and he departed without another word. Sighing, she began to unpick the string. 

At a nearby table, Anya had roped Nathanos into playing whist. He was scowling down at his hand of cards, deliberating over his next move. While his shoulders were hunched protectively over his hand, Anya was splayed out in her seat. She sat slumped, with one foot atop the chair beneath her, the other stretched out as far as it would go. One of her arms was flung over the back of her chair, and she dangled her fan of cards in her hand without a care in the world. 

“If there’s anything I’ve learned since being here,” Anya said, her arm lazily swaying back and forth. “It’s that Kul Tirans always find a way to surprise you.”

Sylvanas agreed with an annoyed grunt. Shuffling through the reports, she read labels and arranged them on the table before her in order of importance. She sought out a name in particular, and when she couldn’t find it her brow darkened. “Why don’t I have an update from the Zandalari treaty yet?”

Without looking up from his hand, Nathanos answered, “From what I understand they are squabbling over concessions.”

The corner of Sylvanas’ mouth turned down sharply. “Tell Lor’themar to stop wasting time, finish the drafting, and arrange for copies to be signed. I want those ships at our disposal before the end of the season.”

“I will see it done,” he said.

His dutiful response did nothing to improve her mood. Sylvanas aimed a glare in his direction and hissed, _“Now,_ Nathanos.”

She could see how the dark note in her voice sent a shiver running down both his and Anya’s spines, and how readily they both responded. They sat bolt upright, their eyes burning bright and alert. Anya’s ears went rigid, and she dropped her hand. The cards scattered along the ground, revealing that there were far too many for a normal hand in whist. 

Rising to his feet, Nathanos flung down his own cards atop the table. “Anything to get me away from this game,” he muttered. As he stomped towards the door, he made sure to tread atop Anya’s cards. 

After he had gone, Anya began picking up all the cards and grumbled, “You couldn’t have waited until after I’d won?”

Sylvanas ignored her. Ever since her second trip to the Crimson Forest, her mood had remained vastly unimproved. 

Her hand strayed to the next report. She checked for proof that the folded letter had not been tampered with, and -- satisfied -- opened it. Her eyes scanned quickly across Velonara’s encoded Thalassian missive. As she read, she pulled over a detailed map of Kul Tiras already weighed down on one section of her desk.

Various notes had been scribbled here and there, predominantly around the various regions of Drustvar. She moved a few more red tokens -- indicating Ashvane forces -- to Fletcher’s Hollow, and a few more black tokens -- indicating Waycrest tokens -- to Barrowknoll. She kept one of the black tokens pinched between thumb and forefinger, using it to tap against the inlet of Fallhaven. 

Sylvanas had already thought of how she would invade Drustvar. If she were in Ashvane’s over-polished shoes, she would sail her ships right up to the real prize of Drustvar’s west coast, strangle Fallhaven for a good year or two of besieging, and then mop up the rest of the west after winter passed. The mountains bisecting the region cleanly in two clearly marked Arom’s Stand importance, as it sat astride the only route over the mountains that an invading army could take. There were no good landing zones for troop barges on the eastern coast. Too many cliffs. And the inlet near Falconhurst was lousy with shoals. No ship larger than a sloop would risk navigating those waters.

Not to mention, the inlet near Falconhurst directly abutted the Crimson Forest. And gods help any army who dared launch an attack on that nightmarish place. 

“Fifteen thousand isn’t enough to fend off a two-pronged attack,” Sylvanas murmured to herself. She dropped the black token onto Fallhaven, and then moved a few more red tokens onto Fletcher’s Hollow.

Shuffling the cards between her hands, Anya stood and made her way over to Sylvanas’ desk. She peered down at the map. “They should withdraw all their forces here -” she pointed to Fallhaven. “- and wait out the siege through the winter. The Kul Tirans are mad, but no one is mad enough to try to camp in eastern Drustvar through this weather.”

“I agree,” Sylvanas said without looking up. “But somehow I doubt they’re going to do that.”

“Maybe they have a morale problem?” Anya offered. She expertly shuffled the cards again, showing off by using far more flourishes than necessary. “Maybe if they give up Fletcher’s Hollow, their levied forces will lose heart. Give up. Go home.”

Pursing her lips together, Sylvanas sat back in her seat. She frowned at Barrowknoll. “Or maybe they know something about this place that we don’t. What did you see when you scouted the area?”

Anya shrugged. The deck of cards vanished between her hands, spirited off to gods only knew where. “A village. A town square. Farmers. Sailors. Soldiers. A cemetery. A Church to the Tides. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Hmm.” Pulling the last parcel towards herself, Sylvanas ordered “Have another look, and report back in two days.”

With a bow, Anya left. Drawing the silver hunting knife from her boot, Sylvanas slipped the tip of it beneath the oiled brown paper to carefully slice the packaging. She opened it, and pulled out a book. Its leather jacket was green and aged. The corners were frayed. The pages were yellowed. Its spine had been broken dozens of times throughout the course of its life. She turned it over, searching for a title, but the gilded lettering had long since been rubbed away. The only distinguishing mark still upon the book was a crude and unrecognisable rune pressed into the centre of the front cover. 

Tossing aside the packaging, Sylvanas opened the book. A note from Velonara slipped out, explaining that this was the only thing she had been able to find on the topic of ancient Drust history. Even the title page had been ripped free, and the author’s name in the forward effaced. A quick scan of the forward proved that the author had been one of the original Gilnean settlers, a gentleman by trade and a natural historian by hobby. 

When Sylvanas turned to the first chapter, she paused. The author had included very detailed sketches of what he had encountered during his explorations. One such sketch took up nearly the entire first page. It was of a wicker man, identical to the one Sylvanas had encountered in the Crimson Forest, down to the skull, the bear claws, and the heart staked against its chest. The chapter header read: _‘On the Subject of Iconography and Effigies’_

Hastily, Sylvanas flipped further along. She skipped through most of the work until she found what she had been looking for. A chapter entitled: _‘A Catalogue of Kings: Gorak Tul and the Myth of the Witch-King of Thros.’_

Sylvanas slowed her reading, carefully scanning each line for information about Gorak Tul, the Horned One, the King Undying, an ancient Drust sovereign prophesied to be defeated by a hero who thwarted death three times. If the author was to be believed, Gorak Tul was naught but a legend. A mythological archetype. A horror story used to scare naughty children. 

But if that were true, then why did Jaina not like Arthur talking about him?

Sylvanas turned the page, then swore softly in Thalassian. 

The rest of the chapter had been ripped out. 

* * *

This time when Sylvanas went back to the Crimson Forest, Jaina was on the outskirts of Gol Inath. The great tree loomed like the ruins of a stark and bleak cathedral. Though Sylvanas had made sure to arrive during the day, the shadows of this place seemed to cling to life beneath the boughs of the tree. 

Arthur was perched on Sylvanas’ shoulder as she arrived, guiding her faithfully onwards. This time, Sylvanas spied one or two humanoid figures around the base of Gol Inath, but none of them were Jaina. They stopped to stare at her as she passed, their expressions guarded. She ignored them, following Arthur’s cheerful directions even while she refused to respond to his usual chatter. 

She found Jaina in a flat clearing between two twisted roots of Gol Inath. Jaina was kneeling on the ground with her back turned, still wearing her skull mask despite not expecting company. Her staff was nowhere in sight. On the forest floor beside her, the enormous ink-black doe was sprawled on its side. For a moment, Sylvanas thought it was dead, but then its head lifted with a weary whine, its star-bright eyes squinting before it flopped back down.

“Shh.” Jaina placed her palm upon the Wild God’s flank, rubbing in a soothing manner. “It’ll be alright, Athainne. We’ll get you through this soon enough.”

“Hunters?” Sylvanas asked, drawing closer. Arthur pushed himself off her shoulder and flew off to a low branch, where he watched. “I didn’t think they’d be able to harm her.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Jaina said, “Nothing so grim.” 

Sylvanas stopped when she was standing just beside her. From this distance, the round bulge of the doe’s stomach was clear. Frowning, Sylvanas asked, “She’s pregnant?”

Jaina hummed. “Breech birth. This is going to get messy.”

With a grimace at her own poor timing, Sylvanas said, “I should come back later.”

But Jaina only shrugged. “Do as you like. You can stay. So long as you can stomach a bit of bodily fluids. Otherwise, I recommend you go stand over there for a bit.” She pointed back towards the massive trunk of Gol Inath.

“I’m not the squeamish sort.”

“Oh, good. Then you won’t mind helping.”

Sylvanas’ ears shot up in surprise. “You can’t be serious.”

Jaina was already shuffling towards the doe’s rear legs. “And why not? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

“I am _not_ putting my hands up there.”

“I meant with the pulling later.” Meanwhile Jaina was unwinding her own handwraps, and folding up the sleeves of her robes nearly to her shoulders. 

Nodding towards the mask, Sylvanas asked, “How can you even see through that?”

“Magic,” Jaina said simply, tossing her handwraps further away so they wouldn’t get soiled. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “That’s a lie.”

Laughing softly, Jaina said, “Only half of one.” And without a mote of hesitation, she stuck her hand into the doe until her elbow all but disappeared. The doe made a noise of complaint, which Jaina hushed. As she began rummaging around, she craned her neck to look at Sylvanas. “Now, to what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your company this time?”

While not the most bizarre situation Sylvanas had ever found herself in, it ranked pretty highly among them. Which meant her first instinct was to default to putting her hands behind her back in an officious pose. “As I’m sure you already know, Lady Ashvane’s forces have begun their siege of Fallhaven.”

“If it’s the safety of Swiftwind Post you’re worried about, you could always pack up and leave.” Jaina had to turn her head back around, her hand feeling around blindly inside the doe. 

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow at her. “Is that why you gave it to me? In the hopes it would act as a deterrent when the surrounding area was eventually overrun?”

“No.” Jaina grabbed something and pulled. Her arm emerged slippery and spotted with flecks of darker fluid. When only one little hoof came with her closed fist, she reached back in for the other. “Your presence there makes my forces seem larger than they are. It’s useful. Keeps the enemy second-guessing their reports. Plus it makes them wonder why I would put an outpost up on a brae in the middle of nowhere.”

Sylvanas’ posture relaxed somewhat. That wasn’t so far-fetched. If she hadn’t been so sure that her people could defend the position, she might have been angry. But Jaina had been right. Swiftwind Post was a craggy rock of highground on its own in the middle of heath fields that stretched all the way to the Sounds. It would take half an army to flush out even a small cohort entrenched there. 

“You should be drawing everything to Fallhaven to protect it,” Sylvanas said. “You can afford to lose Fletcher’s Hollow, but you can’t afford to lose Fallhaven. Why you’re even bothering to wait for a retreat north across Barrowknoll is beyond me.”

“Maybe I’m a tactical genius,” Jaina said dryly.

“Says the woman with her arm shoved halfway up a deer.” Sylvanas drawled. “Unless there’s something special about that place you’re not telling me about?”

Shifting her weight forward, Jaina braced her free hand against the ground and rearranged her other arm deeper inside the doe. “You mean you haven’t sent your scouts through the area multiple times?”

Sylvanas grit her teeth. “I have.”

“And?”

“And,” she admitted, “they found nothing.”

“Then there must be nothing special about it.”

Sylvanas had been around many people in her life who frequently entertained the notion that they were the cleverest person in the room. Most of them thrived off the idea, surrounding themselves with simpering sycophants who would tell them everything they desired to hear. Jaina should have fallen in the same category, but somehow she did not. She gave the impression not that she simply _thought_ she was the smartest person in the room, but that she simply _was_ that clever. When others did it, Sylvanas scoffed. When Jaina did it, that truth was unimpeachable. 

It was -- in short -- incredibly aggravating. 

“So, you’re here to convince me my plan is terrible and I desperately need your help. Is that it?” Jaina asked. She had finally managed to get the other hoof out, and was now straightening the fawn in the womb. 

“Only half of the plan.”

“Oh, good,” Jaina grunted, starting to pull on the fawn’s legs until the backs of its haunches were just visible. “Because I was beginning to think the stories I’ve learned about you since our first meeting were blown completely out of proportion.”

It shouldn’t have stroked Sylvanas’ ego as much as it did that she was storied enough to warrant whispers of her name even in a backwater like Kul Tiras. But it definitely did. 

Jaina jerked her head, the skull nodding towards the ground nearby. “Grab that rope for me, won’t you?”

When Sylvanas glanced down, there was indeed a soft hempen rope coiled among the leaves. She leaned down, picked it up, and handed it over as requested. Cocking her head to one side, she watched as Jaina tied the rope around the fawn’s legs, just above its hooves. It was a sailor’s knot, sturdy yet not so tight that it would damage the newborn. 

Keeping tension steady on the rope with one hand, Jaina stood. She used her free hand to dangle the end of the rope at Sylvanas. “Come on, then. Start being useful.”

Grudgingly and hardly believing what she was doing, Sylvanas moved to stand behind Jaina. She grabbed the last length of the rope and planted her feet firmly on the ground. When Jaina lowered her stance, Sylvanas followed suit so that they mirrored one another. 

“Don’t yank,” Jaina warned without looking around. “We want a nice steady pressure. And try to pull as low and horizontal as you can.”

There were worse ways to endear oneself to a potential ally than helping a Wild God give birth near a mythical entrance to the underworld. Though, truth be told, Sylvanas was struggling to think of one at the moment. 

The doe was larger than most horses, her night-dark flank heaving with every breath. Jaina’s hands were slick with blood and mucous; she had to pause to wrap the rope around her hands. Together, they pulled. It took a great deal more force than Sylvanas had initially thought would be necessary, but slowly the fawn began to emerge. At one point Jaina had to stop to ensure its tail was arranged properly before they were pulling again. And then, the fawn slipped to the ground in a rush.

It was completely still, its coat dark with fluids. Immediately Jaina dropped the rope and went down on her knees. Her movements were quick and practiced. She positioned the fawn just so, sticking her fingers into its mouth and nose until it coughed up more fluid and -- finally -- began to breathe. 

“There we go,” Jaina murmured, her voice soft. She began briskly rubbing the fawn down with a handful of dry leaves from the ground. When Athainne started shuffling as if to stand, Jaina pointed at her. “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right there.”

The Wild God huffed wearily at her, but did as it was told. 

Meanwhile, Sylvanas watched this entire interaction with a sense of bewilderment. “Since when do Wild Gods listen to the whims of mortals?”

“Since now,” said Jaina. She was letting the fawn attempt to stagger upright on its reedy legs, and she patted it on its flank in a congratulatory manner when it managed to succeed. 

Sylvanas coiled the rope neatly around her arm, tying it off and dropping it to the ground. “Why not just solve the problem magically? Why go through all this?”

“I would have, if necessary. But I didn’t need to. They’ll both be fine.” After she had wiped her own hands and arms down as much as she could, Jaina rose to her feet. “As for your military concerns: thank you, but no thank you.” Unrolling the sleeves of her robes, she began gathering up her handwraps and the length of rope. She said dismissively, “You can go, now.”

Sylvanas did not budge. “Sooner or later, they’re going to find out about you. The Drust aren’t a target now, but the moment anyone gets wind that you’re alive...” She trailed off, leaving the repercussions unspoken.

“Maybe. But they don’t know yet.” Suddenly, Jaina froze. She turned towards Sylvanas. _“Do_ they?” she asked, and for a brief moment the dark eye sockets of the skull blazed with a fierce blue light. "Did you tell them? About me?"

"No."

The skull remained fixed and staring at her, deadly silent.

Sylvanas met her glower for glower. "If they know about you, they did not learn it from me."

Jaina remained quietly glaring. Then, she continued gathering up her things. Behind her, the fawn had ambled shakily over to its mother, and was now getting licked clean. 

Sylvanas thought of Katherine, of how her own sources in Boralus had gone quiet over the last few weeks. “Shouldn’t you be worried about what’s happened to your mother? If they are bold enough to attack Drustvar at all, then the power of the Admiralty is waning far more than just a few months ago.”

“My mother can take care of herself,” Jaina said, but her voice was too controlled, too even. 

“And what will happen to your House when she finally dies?” Sylvanas pressed, her arms crossed. “Will you do nothing? Will you let your family name fall into obscurity?”

Her calm finally broken, Jaina whirled about. “Why do you care? This isn’t your fight! You’re only here because you want something you can’t have!” She slashed through the air with her open hand, and the very earth seemed to hold its breath, the shadows of Gol Inath gathering at her feet. “Well, I won’t be the one to give it to you! I will not be the pawn in your game with the Alliance!”

The moment the darkness began to coalesce at the base of the roots, Athainne’s ears had pinned back. Suddenly, Sylvanas found herself pinned by the gazes of both an angry Archdruid and a threatened Wild God with a newborn foal. She gazed coolly back at them, refusing to give an inch. 

“Fine.” Without preamble, Sylvanas turned and began to stride away. “We shall do it your way. I will withdraw my people from Swiftwind Post and the Eastern Cliffs, as you so clearly desire.”

Jaina’s head jerked. The shadows faded. “What -?” 

Giving a little wave of her hand, Sylvanas continued on without turning around. “No, you’ve utterly convinced me, High Thornspeaker. This is not my fight.”

Behind her, Sylvanas could hear Jaina spluttering, “Now, hang on just a -! Sylvanas. _Sylvanas!”_

But Sylvanas did not pause. She continued walking, and when Arthur tried to flutter down onto her shoulder, her hands flew to her bow. His wings flared and he veered off, landing instead in a nearby tree. Bow nocked and ready with a black-tipped arrow, Sylvanas left the Crimson Forest, and this time nobody followed.

* * *

Back at Swiftwind Post, Sylvanas gave the order that they were to make it appear like the Horde was packing up their camps. More importantly, she gave the order that Arthur was no longer allowed near their encampments, and that her rangers had free reign to shoot any ravens they saw venturing too close. None of them did. The ravens all seemed far too clever for that, and stayed far away from the Horde outposts, which seemed to irk Anya to no end. She would watch the skies, finger stroking over her bowstring in cold anticipation.

On the other hand, Mace was permitted to stay, which only seemed to confuse both her and the rangers. To puzzle them even further, Sylvanas took to letting Mace into the command building atop Swiftwind Post. The one who seemed most confused by this turn of events was Mace herself, who would sit on a low stool near the front exit. Wood shavings would pile up at her feet as she would nervously carve her little figures, her dark eyes darting around the room whenever Sylvanas occupied it. Whenever Sylvanas spoke to her, Mace would start, as though afraid Sylvanas had changed her mind and decided that the game was up. 

It took longer than anticipated for the eventual result. But ultimately, Lucille Waycrest came knocking at Sylvanas’ door. 

"Did you know," she said, as an undead guardsman shut the door behind her, locking out the howling gale, "that it is very difficult to get up here?"

"I am aware," Sylvanas drawled. "But now that you're here, you can fill me in on your latest plans, and save Velonara the cost of paper and ink."

The windows faintly rattled in their frames as the wind whistled over the heather and hills. Running her fingers through her dark hair until it had regained some semblance of order, Lucille admitted, "Actually I was hoping you could tell me."

Sylvanas blinked. Her pen paused over the page. "Why would I know?"

Lucille spread her hands. "You think Jaina tells me anything? I'm as much in the dark as anyone. And you're the only non-Drust person I know who ventures so freely into the Crimson Forest, and comes out in one piece."

Careful not to blot ink upon the page, Sylvanas balanced the pen in its inkwell. She leaned back in her seat and studied Lucille over her steepled fingers. Lady Waycrest was young, but she had dark circles under her eyes. Her clothing, while fine, was rumpled. It could have just been courtesy of the wind, but somehow Sylvanas doubted that. The last month or two since their first encounter had put a strain upon her; she looked haggard. 

“You want my help,” Sylvanas said. “But I see no reason why I should give it to you.”

Lucille rocked back on her heels in shock. “Then -? Then why have you been keeping Mace around? Why have you been leaking information to me and not Jaina?”

“Why do you think?” Sylvanas asked.

“Is this some sort of trick question?”

Arching an eyebrow at her, Sylvanas remarked, “You’re not very bright, are you?”

“You -!” Lucille spluttered for words. Pointing out the window towards the encampment, she said incredulously, “You’re unbelievable! You’ve just spent the last few months getting footholds in _my_ land! And now, you -!”

“It’s not really _your_ land though, is it? Legally speaking, perhaps, but we both know how much weight that holds. About as much as this.” Sylvanas took one of the tiny black wooden tokens used to mark the map with troops, and tossed it at Lucille’s feet. “That’s what helping you gets me. So, why would I do it? What do you have to offer me that I would want? Think.”

Lucille’s mouth wrenched open, then shut very quickly again. She swallowed thickly. The brief flash of anger that washed across her features faded, and her expression crumpled. When she spoke her voice was tremulous, “I don’t know.” She had to clear a burr in her throat. “I don’t - I don’t know what I should do.”

Katherine had been right. Lucille Waycrest was a poor ally, indeed. Though not through any fault of her own. This was a girl whose parents had fallen prey to the Heartsbane Coven, witches who worshipped Gorak Tul and sought to retake Drustvar in his name. Her House had been dragged to the brink of destruction. She had barely managed to avoid the fall of her entire family, and even that was hardly from her efforts alone. And now that she was Lady Waycrest, Head of a Great House of Kul Tiras, she was without a mentor, surrounded by even more enemies, adrift in a sea of dangerous politics that she could not hope to navigate alone.

Once, Sylvanas might have taken pity on her -- she might have freely offered advice or guidance -- but not now. Now, Sylvanas did not even offer her a chair.

It was not the principle of the thing. It was the spectacle of it.

And besides, this might even be an educational experience. 

Sitting forward, Sylvanas picked up her pen and returned to drafting her document. “I told you before.” She scratched another line across the page. “Your business is your business. How you go about it is no concern of mine.”

Lucille rubbed at her brow and sighed, “Jaina won’t want to ask for help. She thinks she can win anything by herself. She’s too proud.”

Without looking up, Sylvanas tsked, a light tapping of her tongue against the backs of her teeth. “How very true to her namesake.” She signed the end of the document with a flourish. The last stroke of her name was artfully blotted with ink. “I see you are not as burdened by hubris.”

A muscle twitched at Lucille’s cheek. Still, she said, “No. I am not. I know when I am outmatched and outgunned.”

“That’s a good start, at least.” Sylvanas rubbed at a spot of ink that stained her fingertips. “You want my advice?” 

Lucille bit her bottom chapped lip, then nodded. “I’m listening.”

“The people of Drustvar are superstitious. They follow you not only for your name, but because you are a link to the High Thornspeaker, who defeated the coven of witches that had been terrorising the countryside for years under your family’s rule. Jaina is simultaneously your greatest weakness, and your greatest strength. Which is why I want you here today.” Sylvanas calmly folded her hands in her lap. “Convince Jaina to my terms, and I will consider giving you the support you need.”

A shadow of confusion crossed Lucille’s face. “What are your terms?”

“She already knows. And if she wants to talk, she knows where to find me.” Pointing towards the door, Sylvanas said, “Go. And take your little spy with you.”

For a moment Lucille did nothing. She made an abortive motion, as though she were going to take a step forward, only to turn heel and stride out, leaving Sylvanas alone in the command building. Sylvanas waited a minute or two, then stood and walked over to the door. 

When she pulled it open, she said to one of the guards, “Tell Anya and Nathanos that under no circumstances are they to follow Lady Waycrest. And have Velonara remain in Corlain until further notice.” 

The Forsaken guard bowed, and immediately trotted off to do her bidding. Sylvanas shut the door, returning to her desk. There was far more work to be done. 

* * *

Eventually, Sylvanas was roped into playing cards. Nathanos flat refused to play, and in turn Anya would not accept no as an answer. Or at least, she did, but she sulked about it, all while denying that she was definitely _not_ sulking about it. 

Outside, rain pummeled the windows, and the sky was dark with early evening cloud. Lightning flashed intermittently, followed by the low long roll of thunder. Meanwhile, Sylvanas was losing her fourth game of whist in a row, even after she had ordered Anya to rid herself of any extra cards with which she might cheat. They sat in silence. Sylvanas had cleared one side of her usual work desk in front of the hearth to give them space to play. 

Sylvanas' red eyes burned over her hand, her gaze hotter than the flames that licked the stone hearth black and sooty. "You have always been a filthy little cheat. Where are you hiding them this time?"

Anya played a trump card, winning the round, and said calmly, "I don't know what you're talking about, my Queen."

"Do you like having a tongue? Or would you rather I unburden you from it?"

Anya stuck out said tongue in reply, then said, "And you always were a sore loser."

Sylvanas opened her mouth to retort, but her ears twitched towards the door. Shouts and the sounds of a commotion outside. Both their heads whipped around. They rose to their feet, cards forgotten. Anya had an arrow nocked and drawn in an instant. The moment the door burst open, she fired two shots in rapid succession, her arm a blur of motion. 

The arrows froze midair before they could reach their destination. They hung in the air as a massive shape shadowed the doorstep. The extra guards flanking the doorway were struggling against something. Their feet were just visible, flailing wildly as they were lifted from the ground and pinned against the outer walls, their weapons clattering to the earth. 

Jaina had to duck her head to step inside. Her shoulders stooped, then straightened to their full height once more. Water dripped onto the floor at her bare feet, pooling behind her with every step. With a bored wave of her hand, the arrows fell to the floor. 

The skull mask looked at Sylvanas, and then -- pointedly -- at Anya, who had a third arrow drawn and ready to loose. 

"Anya," said Sylvanas, not taking her eyes off Jaina, "Leave us."

Anya began to hiss a complaint, but Sylvanas made a sharp gesture, cutting her off. Grudgingly, Anya lowered her weapon. She left, stepping around Jaina, who refused to give way. When she was outside, she shut the door hard enough to let her displeasure be known. 

"You better not have killed any of my people," Sylvanas said once they were alone. "Otherwise, I will reconsider our little arrangement."

"They'll be fine." 

Jaina moved closer to the fire. The shadow she cast swallowed the opposite wall and half the floor. The shape of it did not seem to quite match her actual figure, flickering darkly against the panelled wood. It was the first time Sylvanas had ever seen her indoors. Somehow, Jaina made the room feel too small just by standing in it. From this angle, Sylvanas could just make out the hint of her jaw behind the mask. 

After a moment of tense silence, Jaina spoke, her tone curt. “I don’t appreciate being toyed with or manipulated.”

“Finally, something we can agree on,” said Sylvanas, repeating back to Jaina the very words she had spoken on their first meeting. “And I don’t appreciate you barging in here, unannounced, after having strangled my guards on your way in.”

“I figured I ought to repay you for the way you first visited me.” Jaina leaned her staff against the wall so that it rested on the edge of the mantlepiece. The action was nonchalant, as though she were hanging up her coat from the rain, not propping up an object that crackled with dark magics. “Going after Lucille was low. Even for you.”

“I thought I was rather gentle with her, actually.” 

The skull swung in Sylvanas’ direction, its stare incredulous.

Sylvanas shrugged. “Gentler than Ashvane would have been, anyway. Or even your mother, for that matter.”

A grunt of concession. Jaina turned back to the fire. It cast off sparks that sputtered at her feet, never quite reaching the ragged and muddy hems of her robes. “I’m surprised. When I’d heard she was coming here, I thought I’d lost a friend for good.”

With a snort, Sylvanas said, “Do you treat all your friends like pawns?”

“I am _protecting_ her.” Jaina’s voice rasped. 

“I’m not interested in the lies the living tell themselves to sleep better at night.” Sylvanas leaned her hip upon the side of the table, and crossed her legs at the ankle. “And you didn’t come here to tell me off for being hard on your so-called ‘friend.’”

Sylvanas could hear the sharp intake of breath behind that mask. Jaina drew herself up, but her shoulders remained stiff. The firelight limned the edges of the skull in a sickly ochre glow. Eventually, she said, “Give me reserve troops and more coin, and I will consider your proposition.”

“I want more than empty promises.”

“Then what do you want?”

In answer, Sylvanas reached behind herself. She pulled a piece of parchment from a stack of documents on the desk. It was long, trailing nearly to her waist, and filled with neat lines so finely written upon the page, that it appeared more ink than anything else. At the bottom, Sylvanas’ waxen seal was already pressed and dried beneath her signature. 

She held the page out to Jaina, who stepped forward and took it cautiously. Jaina took her time reading over every line of fine print. When she got to the end, she glanced at Sylvanas over the document. “How long have you had this prepared for? Days? Weeks?”

Sylvanas fluttered her fingers in a vague gesture. “A while.”

Jaina’s hand clenched into a fist around the page, crumpling it. She took a deep breath and smoothed it out once more. Then, to Sylvanas’ surprise, she laughed. Sylvanas’ long ears tilted up, and her posture straightened. Jaina was laughing to herself softly, ruefully, shaking her head. The motion rustled the leaves and tokens of her cloak like the wind through the boughs of trees. 

“Predictable,” Jaina chuckled.

Immediately, Sylvanas’ ears slanted back. Her brow darkened. “Is that so?”

Jaina waved the paper at her dismissively. “Not you. I was talking about myself.” Her thumb traced over the blank space where her own signature was supposed to go, right beside Sylvanas’ name. “If I sign this, I will have your support?” 

“You will.”

Turning back to the document, Jaina scoured it from top to bottom again. And then once more. She drew up next to Sylvanas to reach the table, where she set the document down on a bit of clear space. She grabbed up a pen, dipped it into a spare inkwell, and began to cross out certain sections. 

Not moving from where she leaned against the desk, Sylvanas peered over Jaina’s shoulder. “Did your Drust education come with a healthy dose of law, as well?” she asked dryly. “Or is that due to another time in your upbringing?”

With a wordless grunt, Jaina slashed the pen across three of the clauses near the end. “If I am going to become the Lord Admiral and open the borders, then I will do so on my terms. Not yours. Not anyone’s.”

The corner of Sylvanas’ mouth turned down in annoyance. Still, she only hummed darkly in agreement. “And removing my exclusive rights to military bases?”

The skull tilted in her direction as Jaina glanced balefully over at her. “You may keep your civilian outposts, but there is no way I will allow a foreign military presence on Kul Tiran soil after this internal disagreement between the Houses has been settled.”

Jaina re-read the agreement for a final time, pen poised over the place where her name was to be signed. When the pen was just about to touch the parchment however, Sylvanas cleared her throat. Jaina straightened and turned to her in questioning silence.

“It needs to be witnessed,” Sylvanas explained.

“Bring your witness, then,” said Jaina impatiently. 

It took only a moment to get Nathanos inside. He had been lurking just outside the front door, alongside what seemed to be every member of the Horde in the camp. Most had their weapons drawn, ready for anything. Steel glinted wetly through the rain-darkened air. Sylvanas gave the assembled little crowd a cool look, then jerked her head for Nathanos to follow her.

She shut the door behind them. Nathanos hair was slicked back to his head, and his coat was soaked, but he paid no attention to the rain. The golden glow of his eyes glowered in silent disapproval first at Jaina -- for daring to endanger the Dark Lady -- and then at Sylvanas -- for daring to put herself in danger in the first place. 

Sylvanas strode past him, making her way back towards the desk. "You can be angry with me later, Nathanos. Right now, we need a witness."

"Very well," he murmured, and though his tone was light and cultured his expression was foreboding. 

Jaina waited for him to join them. Then she took up the pen once more.

Sylvanas cleared her throat again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Jaina jerked upright, the pen clenched between her fingers in a white-knuckled grip. "What now?"

Sylvanas pointed at her. "Your mask. We need to be able to faithfully verify your identity."

For a moment Jaina did nothing. Then, muttering foul curses under her breath, she threw the pen down onto the desk. It sent a splatter of ink across some of Sylvanas' other documents, but left their agreement unscathed. She reached up, fingers curling around the base of the skull at her neck, and lifted the mask away. 

She was both younger and older than Sylvanas had expected. Her mouth was pinched in displeasure, her jaw bullishly set. A deep scar ran down the right side of her face, bisecting one of her eyes, so that it peered out, white and blind. Her other eye was the same icy blue as her mother’s. Indeed, they looked remarkably similar, but for Jaina’s tall, broad-shouldered build. Streaks of her original hair colour gleamed golden in the firelight, as though whatever weapon had slashed across her face had drained everything out of that side. 

She tucked the skull under one arm and glared challengingly at both of them. “I am Jaina Proudmoore, youngest child of Daelin Proudmoore and Katherine Proudmoore née Grey. Being of sound mind and body, I am willfully signing this agreement to a temporary alliance with the Warchief of the Horde, Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of the Forsaken, under the discretion of -” she waved towards Nathanos, “- whoever the fuck you are. Now, can we get on with it? Or are you going to continue to be a pain in the neck?”

Giving a mock bow, Sylvanas said, “By all means.”

Without another word, Jaina turned back to the document. She snatched up the pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and signed. Handing the pen to Nathanos, he signed between both their names. Then with a last baleful look in Sylvanas’ direction, Jaina crammed the skull back over her head, wrenching at its jaw to secure the mask more firmly in place. 

She was halfway to the exit, when Sylvanas called after her. “Be sure to give my compliments to Lady Waycrest for actually managing to change your mind.”

Jaina paused with her hand on the door. “She didn’t.”

A furrow marred Sylvanas’ brow. “Then who did?”

“Arthur.”

The door swung inwards, admitting a sheet of rain onto the floorboards, and Jaina strode out without a second glance. She did not bother shutting the door behind her. Picking up the document, Sylvanas watched Jaina’s retreat. The members of the Horde congregating outside parted before her like waves before a ship’s prow. And a familiar raven swooped down and landed on her shoulder. 

Then one of the Forsaken guardsmen reached in, and shut the door, shutting out the image and the rain. 

Tapping her finger against the edge of the parchment, Sylvanas asked, “Is that enough proof for you?”

At her side, Nathanos grunted sourly. “I am adequately convinced. Though your stage performance was rather lackluster, in my opinion.”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe you as a patron of the arts, either.”

“Somehow I feel the theatrics aren’t over yet.”

Rather than answer, Sylvanas merely lifted one shoulder in a lofty shrug.

“Why are you baiting her? Why waste time?” Nathanos asked. “If we had given our support immediately, then Drustvar would have been in our debt. Our military presence would be too difficult to dislodge without taking more formal avenues. The outcome would have been the same.”

“Because now I have what I truly wanted in Kul Tiras.” Sylvanas lifted the document in her hands. Jaina’s signature was still wet; the ink gleamed in the firelight. She smiled. “An open invitation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things I expected in this chapter: lots of politics and world building  
> things I got in this chapter: animal husbandry


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fifth chapter I’ve added to the list is, predictably, going to be an epilogue from Jaina’s POV

Despite the recently signed treaty -- or perhaps because of it -- Sylvanas did not hear from Jaina for nearly a week. It felt like a game. Like a childish staring contest, waiting to find who would be the first to blink. Even Nathanos pointed out that they should begin formal liaisons with Lady Waycrest in order to understand exactly what supplies and reinforcements she needed to fight off the Ashvane forces intent on invading eastern Drustvar. Sylvanas ignored him utterly, with orders to withhold any further gold or aid for the time being. 

And then a rapping came at her door in Swiftwind Post.

Nathanos answered it. The moment he opened the door, the harsh winds made the fire splutter in the hearth, threatening to extinguish the flames. Sitting at her desk opposite the fire, Sylvanas listened even while she continued to read the latest reports from Zandalar. 

“What is it?” Nathanos asked, his voice a gravelly murmur. 

“It’s the bird, Ranger Lord,” came the voice of one of her Forsaken guardsmen. “I know we aren’t supposed to -- er -- ‘develop a rapport’ but he says he has a message for the Dark Lady.” 

On cue, there followed a flapping of wings as Arthur flew inside and landed directly atop Nathanos’ head. To his credit, Nathanos remained perfectly still, holding the door open while Arthur made himself comfortable. 

“Sorry! Sorry!” said Arthur, scrambling to right himself. “It’s just very windy out there. Couldn’t stand it for another second.”

His black feathers were sticking up in all directions, and he looked positively harried. For a raven. 

Sylvanas lifted her attention from the parchment she had been reading. “Do make yourself comfortable,” she said sarcastically.

“Oh, why thank you! Don’t mind if I do.”

“I mind,” Nathanos growled, though his only motion was to shut the door firmly. 

Arthur seemed unconcerned by this addendum, for he began to preen in an attempt to fix his feathers. 

_“Arthur,”_ said Sylvanas sharply.

“Hmm?” Arthur lifted a wing and began running his beak along the longer flight feathers.

“You had a message for me?” she reminded him. 

“Right. Yes. I do.” Shuffling his tail, Arthur righted himself atop Nathanos’ head and said, “The High Thornspeaker has bid you come over for tea. Wait -- you don’t need to eat or drink anymore, do you? A meeting. She bids you come over for a meeting.”

“When?” Sylvanas enunciated the word very clearly, letting her irritation through despite herself. 

“When it suits,” Arthur answered. “And by that I mean: now.”

How impatient humans were. And how mercurial. Rolling her eyes, Sylvanas set down the sheet of parchment and scraped back her chair to stand. “Where are we meeting?” 

“Her house.”

Sylvanas’ steps slowed in her approach to the door. “At Gol Inath?” 

“What?” Arthur sounded taken aback. “No. Nobody actually lives at Gol Inath. That would be terrible. And uncomfortable. And -”

“All right, yes. I get the point.” 

Holding out her hand, Sylvanas transferred Arthur from Nathanos’ head to her own shoulder. An act which did very little to improve Nathanos’ mood; he glowered mutely at the raven as though he were a stain upon Sylvanas’ pauldron. But there was no point in denying Arthur’s place on her shoulder when he would end up there regardless of what she did. 

“Hold down the fort,” she said to Nathanos before she left. 

For all that Arthur had said ‘now’, it was a four day’s trek by horse to the Crimson Forest from Swiftwind Post. Sylvanas managed to get this down to three days by taking an eagle to Arom’s Stand, and then walking the rest of the way. And even then, Arthur had clung to her shoulder the whole trip. He did not seem to need to sleep, much to her dismay.

Sylvanas had expected Jaina to live in the heart of the Crimson Forest. Somewhere near the great tree of Gol Inath. Or perhaps in a hovel dug into the ground, like a wolf’s den. Maybe in a swamp like a bog witch. She did not expect Jaina to live in a nondescript cabin along the westernmost reaches of the Crimson Forest, where the woods met the cliffs, their branches raking against the overcast sky. The trees were set at a severe angle from the sea, whence the winds raced. Now, the treeline rolled with a slow-moving fog. It obscured the cliff’s edge, so that Sylvanas’ every step taken was wary. She could hear the roar of the nearby ocean. Sea salt scented the air, mingling with the smell of fresh damp earth and the darker smells of the forest. 

The cabin was nestled amidst the trees. It peered out over the nearby cliffside through the mist. It was -- for lack of a better word -- cosy. It had a thatched roof and vine-clutched walls. There was an iron-wrought lantern lit beside the front door. The windows glowed with internal firelight. 

It was not the sort of place a terrifying primal Druid lived. There wasn't a single cursed wicker effigy in sight. 

Jaina herself was walking around the perimeter of the cabin. There was no way she could have spotted Sylvanas and Arthur approaching through the soupy fog, but she looked around when they got within a certain range. At that point, Sylvanas could feel something settling over her skin. As though she had just walked through a spider's web. The wards allowed her to pass however, and she continued striding forward.

"You're early," Jaina remarked, when Sylvanas was near enough. 

"I was told I should arrive urgently," was Sylvanas' reply. 

"Really? I wasn't expecting you for another day."

Sylvanas shot Arthur a scathing look, and he ducked his feathery head in an almost sheepish manner.

"Well, would you look at the time!" Arthur said far too loudly. "I gotta go. Bye!"

And with that, he flew off from Sylvanas' shoulder, heading deeper into the trees. 

When Sylvanas turned from watching his retreat, Jaina was looking at her with an expression of calm amusement. Her skull mask was nowhere to be seen. Even her robes were more casual than during their past encounters. She had foregone the druidic trinkets and the cloak, leaving only a comfortable set of robes that she had hiked up around her knees to free up her stride. Her feet were muddy and bare. Fresh scratch marks adorned her skin in narrow red lines from where she had pushed through the thorny underbrush. Despite this, the robes were fastened high enough at her throat that her neck was covered. Perhaps to ward off the chill in the air. 

"Come on in, then." Jaina motioned for Sylvanas to follow her. 

Sylvanas did so without questioning why she was here. At the front door, Jaina washed her feet in a pail of water that had been left outside for just that purpose. She shot Sylvanas' boots a pointed look. Bending over, Sylvanas unbuckled her greaves and boots. She left them beside the door alongside her weapons before she was ushered inside. 

The interior of the cabin was warm and bare-timbered. Along the wall nearest the door, the skull mask had been hung on a peg as though it were a commonplace gentleman's hat. As though Jaina sometimes were too preoccupied, and would have forgotten to wear it out and about if not for its strategic location by the exit. Jaina moved through the house with a familiarity that spoke of years of dwelling here. She crossed over to the fireplace and swung a blackened kettle over the flames. 

"Tea?" she asked. 

"No, thank you," Sylvanas demurred. 

With a shrug, Jaina went about preparing a pot for herself, leaving Sylvanas to stroll about the main floor. The place was crammed with books and scrolls. Every nook and cranny heaped up with them. They were stacked in corners. They were jammed into shelves built along the walls. They crowded the little table before the fireplace, and even the stairs leading to a loft where Sylvanas could just spy a bed. To climb those stairs would have required someone to pick their way up each step along a narrow path precariously perched with old tomes and a leftover cup of tea teetering near the top rail. 

Picking a book at random from a nearby shelf, Sylvanas inspected its leather-bound cover without any real interest in its contents. “Where did you get all of these?”

“Libraries,” Jaina answered vaguely without turning around. 

Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow at the title of another book’s spine. It was a rare Thalassian text that she herself had only ever heard about in her studies at home. “Drustvar doesn’t strike me as a place that is teeming with libraries. Especially not libraries with books like these.”

“Some of them I inherited from Ulfar. Others I was gifted by Lucille.”

Shuffling idly through a few pages, Sylvanas snapped the book shut between her hands. “And the rest?”

Jaina made a non-committal sound. “The rest I borrowed, you might say. From Dalaran.”

Sylvanas paused. Then, she placed the book back in its place. “So, when you’re not terrorising the local population, you steal books from the Grand Library of the Kirin Tor.”

“Just another one of my charming hobbies,” Jaina drawled. She finished spooning the proper amount of tea leaves into the pot and stoppered the jar, setting it aside. “I used to think it was a game when I was younger. Teleporting into the Violet Citadel and raiding the Grand Library for a new book to read before they could figure out I was even there.”

“I fail to see how triggering the wards of the world’s most powerful wizarding city could be considered a game.”

“Oh, the wards were the best part. They’re fun little puzzles, and you have to solve for the exact right piece to get in without being noticed.”

"You're mad."

Jaina laughed, and the sound was surprisingly light. "Maybe."

"Were you ever caught?"

"Once." Jaina leaned back in her seat, waiting for the water to boil. "But I just pretended to be an Archmage's apprentice, and they let me go pretty promptly. I was young. And afterwards, I was a lot more cautious about my little dalliances outside of Drustvar."

Sylvanas turned back to perusing the shelves. In one corner of the room there was a pantry stuffed full of goods, both fresh and preserved, home gathered and even purchased from the markets of Corlain. Sylvanas could recall a few goods in particular from the weekend markets, but she had no memory of seeing anyone matching Jaina's description there. Perhaps the locals left offerings of food at the edge of the Crimson forest, as if to a vengeful god living nearby. Or perhaps, given Jaina's obvious predilection towards sneaking into places, she had simply disguised herself with a spell and walked through the markets without a care in the world. Both seemed equally likely.

"And Ulfar let you go?" Sylvanas asked.

"As if he had a choice. I was -- how would my brothers put it? -- a filthy little bilge rat brat."

Sylvanas huffed with laughter. "That sounds about right."

"About me? Or about my brothers?"

"Yes." She aimed a smirk over her shoulder at Jaina, who appeared unfazed. "I have siblings as well, you know."

"Let me guess..." Jaina held up her hands as though framing Sylvanas in a canvas picture. "Middle child?"

"Says the youngest. I bet you were spoiled rotten."

Jaina's smile slipped. "Being the baby in the family only got me so far. If anything it made things worse in the end."

With a hum of understanding, Sylvanas dragged her fingers along the spines of a row of books. Motes of dust wheeled in the air in their wake. She paused when she arrived at a wad of pages that had been stuck between two books. There were noises behind her of Jaina swinging the kettle away from the fire and filling the teapot. With her host distracted, Sylvanas dug out the pages, careful to shield her actions with her body.

"Find anything of interest over there?" Jaina asked.

"Why? Are you afraid that I'll steal them?" Sylvanas shot back, keeping her tone light even as she managed to pry the pages free. They were pretty firmly stuck between the books, and the threat of tearing the wafer-thin paper persisted until she had loosened them enough.

"I was about to say you could borrow one, actually."

"According to you, those two things are the same."

A snort of laughter, the creak of iron as Jaina hung the kettle back into place, then the gentle clink of porcelain against porcelain. Turning over the first page in her hand, Sylvanas went very still. One edge of the pages were ragged, as though they had been ripped out of a book. And on the first sheet there was a drawing labelled: _'Fig. 66 - The Hero in Thros.'_ The drawing was done in a familiar style, all in cross-hatched ink, sketched by a studious hand. It portrayed a man hanging by the neck from a tree. He was impaled through the chest by a broken sword, his toes dangling over a body of water. A massive raven crouched on his shoulder. It was plucking out his eye and eating it.

A sudden chill washed over her despite the warmth of the cabin. Her thumb traced over the side of the image as she studied it.

Behind her, Jaina sighed, and her chair creaked as though she had just leaned back. "Come sit down. Let's chat."

Sylvanas had the urge to steal the pages, to hastily stuff them into a leather pouch at her belt and cause a scene which allowed her to leave without Jaina being any wiser of her actions. It would be a retributive kind of justice. A theft for a theft. Surely, Jaina wouldn't notice the missing pages anytime soon. But instead, Sylvanas folded the pages back up and put them where she had found them. When she turned, it was to find that Jaina was blowing on her mug of tea, which steamed in her hands.

"Chat," Sylvanas repeated. "About what exactly?"

Jaina must have noticed the sudden chill in Sylvanas' voice, for her head swung towards her with a startled frown. "About us. The Horde and Kul Tiras. About our plans moving forward."

"Is that all?"

Slowly, Jaina lowered her mug so that it was cradled in her lap. "What else do you think this is?"

"You tell me. You're the one who invited me here, after playing hard to get." Hearing her own words, Sylvanas' eyes widened fractionally. "Ah. I see. So, that's what this is about."

Jaina's face screwed up in confusion. "What?"

Reaching for her gauntlets, Sylvanas began to unbuckle them. She slid them from her hands, pulling off the gloves beneath them as she went. She approached the long, low-slung couch before the fireplace, tossing the gloves and gauntlets onto the backs of the cushions. "If you had told me this was what you wanted to begin with, we could have avoided this whole song and dance. Honestly, what a bore."

Jaina watched Sylvanas' actions with increasing bewilderment. Yet her gaze followed every small section of exposed pale skin beneath layers of armour. When Sylvanas began to unbuckle her pauldrons and cloak, draping them over the back of the couch as well, Jaina said, "I have no idea what you're implying."

"I've never been that inclined to using this as a means of negotiation, but I suppose you aren't so bad." The gorget was cast aside, and Sylvanas ran a bare hand through her hair. It was bleached in undeath, a pale mockery of its former golden hue. "If you would like to help me with the cuirass, this would all be a lot easier."

"Help you with your -?" Finally, realisation dawned on Jaina's face. Her jaw dropped. And then she began to laugh. It sounded equal parts amused, incredulous, and nervous. _"What?_ No! This isn't -! No. I don't know how you could have possibly gotten that impression."

Hands freezing on the stays of her cuirass, Sylvanas shot her a disbelieving look. "You're serious."

Jaina managed to school her expression, but for the tell-tale curve of her lips in a smile, and the slight pink tinge to her cheeks. "Very serious. This is not a seduction attempt. Though, I'm flattered you would consider it. I think?" She lifted her cup of tea to her mouth for a contemplative sip. "Yes, I've decided I'm flattered."

"Then why have you brought me here? Surely you must want something."

Rolling her eyes, Jaina cupped her mug between her hands. "If we're going to be working together, then I want to get to know you better." Sylvanas’ expression must have been skeptical, for Jaina straightened in her seat, looking indignant. “I mean it. I just want to talk.”

With a lilting hum, Sylvanas rounded the couch. She pushed aside her various articles of armour, and sat down. She did not bother putting it all back on just yet. Not when Jaina’s good eye lingered along the hints of Sylvanas’ figure beneath all that remaining leather and chainmail, before she realised exactly what she was doing and shook her head, as though annoyed with herself. 

Sylvanas casually crossed her legs at the knee and leaned back, slinging one arm over the top of the cushions. “Ask your questions, then,” she permitted in a magnanimous tone that made Jaina snort into her cup of tea. 

Despite the approval, Jaina did not say anything immediately. She thought for a moment. “What is your next step? After Kul Tiras, I mean.”

“Do you mean: do I intend to wage a pointless war with the Alliance, during which thousands of lives will be lost all for the sake of seeing Horde banners spread across a map?” Sylvanas sneered at the idea. “No. I won’t roll over for the Alliance, but I won’t fight them without good reason, either.” 

“So, you think there can be peace between your factions?”

Sylvanas toyed with a frayed edge of the pillow. “I think peace is only permitted when people have nothing to gain.”

“That’s very pessimistic of you.”

“Dying a few times does that.”

For some reason that reply made Jaina’s brows furrow. She tapped at the sides of her mug, then asked, “Do you -?”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sylvanas raised a finger and waggled it as though at a spoiled child. “For every question you ask, I get to ask one in return. You want to be fair to your new ally, don’t you?”

With a huff of irritation, Jaina sipped at her tea and nodded for Sylvanas to continue. 

Carefully watching for Jaina’s reaction, Sylvanas asked, “If your brother had lived, if he had become the Lord Admiral and this civil war had never happened, what would you do?” 

Jaina answered without a hint of hesitation, “I would attempt to mend bridges between the Drust and the Kul Tirans, starting with my influence with House Waycrest.” 

“Your ambitions are rather…” Sylvanas sought the right word. “... _lacklustre.”_

“And yours are rather megalomanic,” Jaina shot back. 

Sylvanas merely shrugged off the accusation.

“My turn.” Sitting forward in her seat to pour herself another cup of tea, Jaina said, “Do you like being Warchief of the Horde?”

“It is an honour, and a title I am proud to bear,” Sylvanas said the words like a mantra she told her constituents. The only thing Orcs loved more than strength was honour. Or at least the loose concept of it. 

“Yes, but do you _like_ it?”

The immediate acerbic response died in Sylvanas’ mouth. She narrowed her eyes, her tongue running over the backs of her teeth in quiet contemplation. “I like power. I like the control it gives me. Do I like being Warchief?” Sylvanas tilted her head side to side as though weighing two options in her mind. “No more than I liked being Ranger-General, I suppose. But most of all I despise being helpless. Weak. At the beck and call of others. That is a fate I will not endure again.” 

Jaina hummed an understanding note. “I understand your past has been fraught -- for lack of a better word. The Emerald Dream can sometimes offer catharsis, if you have the right guide. I can take you back, if you wish.”

“Is that what you did with your horrible wicker man in the woods the first time I was trying to find Gol Inath?” Sylvanas’ lip curled. “I have no desire to Dream again. Nor will I ever.”

“Suit yourself,” Jaina muttered into her mug. 

Sylvanas gestured towards the scar on Jaina’s face. “How did you get that?” 

Reaching up with one hand, Jaina traced the scar that slashed down the right side of her brow and cheek. Her blind eye peered from between the cage of her fingers. “I was foolhardy and brash,” she answered with a tight smile. She lowered her hand. “It’s a wound of overconfidence. I rushed in and my opponent dipped when I thought he was going to dash, so to speak. And I paid the price for it.”

Jaina was dodging the question, but Sylvanas could not deny that she herself had done the same. Instead she remarked, “I’m amazed your eye survived intact.”

“It didn’t,” Jaina said darkly. “But it’s my turn, now.” She waited for Sylvanas to motion her to continue, and then asked, “Are there times you wish you were still alive?”

The contest of who would blink first was back. Sylvanas was strongly reminded of a childhood game she and her siblings used to play. Two truths and a lie. Each player had to guess which of the three statements was false. Vereesa always lost. She was too easy to read. 

Now, Sylvanas wondered if this were really an exercise about building trust -- as Jaina had implied -- or if it were only a means of sussing out the other player’s tell. A pity for Jaina. Sylvanas was an expert at this game. The trick was to cheat and always tell the truth. 

How that truth twisted itself to meet reality was another proposition entirely. 

“Yes. All the time.” The truth wrenched itself from Sylvanas’ lips in a hiss that made the fireplace flicker. “Do you ever wish you had been sent to the Tidesages or the Kirin Tor, instead of being smuggled off to the Drust?”

The firelight played across Jaina’s face, casting her blind eye in shadow so that it seemed to peer like a nocturnal animal’s through the gloom. “Yes,” she said softly. “All the time.”

A log in the fireplace cracked and popped. Jaina set down her tea on the table in order to lean forward and prod at the fire with an iron poker that had been leaning against her seat for just that purpose. She set the poker back down, but left her tea on the table. When she spoke she seemed to address the hearth, “How many times have you died?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Do you want to finish the game?” Jaina countered, turning her head back towards Sylvanas.

So, she thought it was a game, too. Convenient. Baring her teeth in a grim smile, Sylvanas said, “Three times.”

A strange expression flickered across Jaina’s face, but it left as quickly as it had come. Sylvanas tried to figure out what exactly it had meant, why that number was significant, but Jaina was watching her expectantly for another question. And so Sylvanas asked, “When you Dream, what do you see?”

Jaina’s mouth opened, then shut again. She busied herself with unfastening the tucked up hems of her robes so that they hung around her ankles once more. Finally, she said far too casually, “I see many things in the Emerald Dream.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

Shooting Sylvanas a bitter look, Jaina steeled herself before saying, “I see a tree that grows from the sea. Its canopy reaches the stars. Its roots pierce the depths. I am hanging from its branches. I see my father’s flagship wrestling the waves. He stands on the quarterdeck and yells every vile curse he can think of at me. He calls me a plague upon his House. He calls me the ruin of Kul Tiras. And beneath the shadow of the tree, the Great Fleet burns, and I can hear-” 

She cut herself off, clearing her throat and looking away towards the hearth once more, as though it might offer her some solace. 

“Yes, that sounds very cathartic,” Sylvanas said dryly. 

Drawing herself up, Jaina grabbed her tea from the table and took a heady gulp. “My Dreaming is different. It’s -” she grimaced. “- _compromised._ I can guide people through, but when I enter by myself, things get complicated.” 

Sylvanas sighed. “Trust a Druid to never just give a straight answer. What cryptic nonsense.”

“Like yours are any better.” Jaina tried to regain her airs of nonchalance, but it was ruined by the way she kept fiddling with the now empty mug in her lap. “Do you really think we can win this war?”

A slow confident smile tugged at the corner of Sylvanas’ mouth. “Now that I’m here? Absolutely.”

Jaina shot her an exasperated look. “Are you always this cocky?”

“Is that another question?”

Waving her away, Jaina said, “No, no. It’s your turn again.”

Sylvanas thought of hanged men. She thought of pages torn out of books. She thought of Gorak Tul, of ancient Drust, of secrets stashed between dusty tomes in Jaina’s personal library. Leaning forward on the couch, Sylvanas rested her elbows upon her knees. “Why don’t you like Arthur talking about what happened in Thros?”

Immediately Jaina’s face hardened. Her once open and amiable airs vanished like a whirl of smoke in a gale. Gone were the teasings of camaraderie, the mutual probing for information -- parry, riposte -- and in its place an unyielding quality in her gaze. Even without the mask and the dressings of the High Thornspeaker, she was once again that terrifying figure who loomed in the maw of Gol Inath, crowned in bone and blood and starlight. 

“I think we’re done with our game for today,” Jaina said with a voice like cold iron. “You may show yourself out now, Sylvanas. No doubt we will be seeing each other again soon.”

* * *

A gale was spitting down rain at Swiftwind Post. Sylvanas stood at the window of the second floor command building. She watched the tussock grass and heath far below the hills billowing in the wind like a sea of copper and verdigris. The land of eastern Drustvar was dotted with new snow. Patches of white gathered in the saddles of hills and the corners of valleys. Even now the wind drove the bluffs with flecks of white mixed through with rain. The air held a biting chill that would only continue to deepen as the land settled into its winter months with the inevitability of the grave.

Sylvanas’ personal quarters were bare. There was a bed with dark cotton sheets, in which she never slept. A single unoccupied chair crouched in one corner, its legs spidery; they creaked under the slightest weight. She had brought no personal effects with her to Kul Tiras. Indeed, she kept no personal effects in Grommash Hold either. Any scraps dear to her were locked away in the Undercity, or otherwise buried and decaying in Windrunner Spire. This room on Swiftwind Post was a mere placeholder. A simulacrum of personal space. A place where she could -- upon occasion -- be alone with her thoughts. It might as well have been a broom cupboard. 

She was looking north, as if trying to see a glimpse of the landscape in that direction. But not even her gaze could pierce the veil of rain and snow that blurred the distance into a canvas of faded white. Barrowknoll was a three day’s march north of their current position. She would need to walk the ground there herself before long.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Anya’s reports. Only that she did not trust this place to be what it seemed. And there was something about Barrowknoll that Jaina was refusing to tell her. It made Sylvanas uneasy.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Sylvanas did not turn around. Her reflection in the glass painted a grim overlay to the landscape beyond. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Nathanos stepped inside. Snow melted on his shoulders. He bowed. “You have guests.”

“Who?”

“Lady Lucille Waycrest.”

Sylvanas remained still as a statue, her hands clasped behind her back. “I will receive her here. Have her come up.”

Executing another shallow bow, Nathanos murmured, “Yes, my Queen.”

When he departed, he left the door open a sliver. The sound of voices drifted up the stairs, followed by the hesitant creak of footsteps on the stairwell. Sylvanas did not need to turn around to know that Lucille was dawdling just outside the room; she could hear the intrusion of her breathing, of her furiously beating heart.

“Do you think I am going to devour you in my lair?” Syvlanas drawled, keeping a close eye on the window, even while using the reflection in the glass to see what lay behind her.

Lucille’s reflection cautiously pushed the door open a little wider, but she still did not cross the threshold. “You do seem the type, you know.”

Sylvanas smiled to herself, and with her back turned her amused expression was not visible from the door. “If only your friend in the woods treated me with such caution.”

“She doesn’t scare easily.”

“So, I gathered.” Turning around at last, Sylvanas fixed Lucille in place with her gaze. “What can I do for you today, Lady Waycrest?”

Lucille stepped inside, bracing herself as though for a blow. “Quite the opposite, actually. You once asked me if there was something I could do for you.”

Now, that piqued Sylvanas’ interest. She leaned her shoulder against the window frame. Her armour scraped against the wood there. “Yes. I remember.”

“I have someone who needs shelter, and has sought me out for it. But if I were to give it to them, I would put a target on both our heads.”

Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. “I fail to see how sheltering someone for you gives me anything of use.”

Shaking her head, Lucille said boldly, "You are mistaken, Sylvanas. I am doing you a favour."

Upon hearing her name, Sylvanas’ face darkened. Her eyes blazed, but when she spoke her voice was deadly quiet. "You will call me _'Dark Lady'_ or _'Warchief.'"_

Lucille took an abortive step back, only to steel herself. "But Jaina calls you Sylvanas."

"You are not Jaina."

Nervously, Lucille wet her lower lip. Still, she held her ground. “Maybe not. But I have something you want, even if you don’t know it yet.”

Arms crossed, Sylvanas tapped her fingers against her opposite arm. The motion made a metallic click every time her clawed gauntlets touched her armour. “And if I do this for you? What do you expect in return?”

“Ten thousand soldiers,” said Lucille without a hint of hesitation.

Sylvanas blinked. “I’m sorry.” She pretended to shift her hood as though it had obstructed her ears. “I thought I just heard you say you want me to nearly double your forces in exchange for giving a single person shelter.”

Back straight, jaw squared, Lucille nodded. “That’s right.”

“I’m struggling to tell whether your intention was to make me laugh, or to make me angry.”

“Just -” Lucille waved her over. “- come downstairs? Please? I’ve brought my guest with me.”

Nathanos _had_ mentioned guests. Plural. And Sylvanas would be lying if she said she wasn’t intrigued by the boldness of Kul Tirans, if nothing else. 

Pushing away from the window, Sylvanas strode towards the door. When she brushed past Lucille, she growled, “If this is a waste of my time, then I’m going to be very irritated.”

“It won’t be,” Lucille insisted, but she sounded less sure of herself when Sylvanas was glaring at her over her shoulder than when Sylvanas was safely across an empty room. 

The stairs did not creak beneath Sylvanas’ feet when she descended to the first floor, though the creaking came when Lucille followed closely after her. Voices continued to murmur from downstairs, growing louder with every step Sylvanas took. When she reached the bottom step and turned, she froze, her ears canting up in shock. 

Katherine Proudmoore was seated in a chair by the fire. She was engaged in a pleasant conversation with a Highmountain Tauren druid standing beside her, who was serving her tea. Sylvanas had not even been aware that they stocked tea at Swiftwind Post, but apparently they did when the Lord Admiral visited. Katherine’s legs were crossed. A silver falcon-headed cane leaned against one side of her chair. 

When the Tauren noticed his Warchief’s presence, he jerked upright, nearly scraping his impressive rack of antlers against the ceiling. The teapot seemed sized for a gnome when clutched between his massive hands. 

For her part, Katherine merely turned to look in Sylvanas’ direction, calmly sipping at her cup of tea. “Oh, good. You’ve finally deigned to grace us with your presence.”

Sylvanas regained her composure quickly. She inclined her head towards Katherine. “Lord Admiral. I was not expecting to see you so soon.”

“Lucky you,” Katherine said dryly. “I would stand to greet you, but -” she tapped the head of her cane with her elbow. “- needs must.”

Eyes flicking towards the Tauren, Sylvanas jerked her head to the door. Without question, he set the teapot down and departed with a bow. 

Sylvanas approached, placing her hands behind her back. “An old war wound or a new one?”

Shrugging, Katherine sipped at her tea. “A bit of both.” 

Sylvanas stopped by the fireplace. There were no other seats, save her own behind the large desk on the other side of the room, and one across from it for the rare occasion when one of her rangers or generals were delivering a report. She cocked her head curiously down at Katherine, then looked over at Lucille. “Why did you bring her to me here and not to -?”

Before Sylvanas could finish her sentence, Lucille shook her head sharply from where she stood at the foot of the stairs. Sylvanas stopped speaking, her mouth shutting with a click of fangs. Katherine frowned between the two of them. 

“Bring me to whom?” Katherine asked, lowering her teacup and saucer so that they rested upon one knee. 

Lucille did not say anything, but she was still giving Sylvanas a significant look that spoke volumes. 

“Nobody,” Sylvanas lied smoothly, her face giving away nothing. “I only meant to inquire as to why Lady Waycrest cannot shelter you herself.”

Katherine appeared entirely unconvinced by these antics. Her storm-steel gaze moved to Lucille, trying to see if she would be the first to crack, but Lucille held her ground. Eventually, Katherine turned her attention back to Sylvanas, and she explained, “My enemies know that my last base of power is within Drustvar. What with my family being from the region originally. Lucille is a distant niece, of sorts. I knew she wouldn’t turn me away, should I be desperate.” 

“I see.” Sylvanas did not mention that Katherine had called Lucille ‘a paltry ally’ during their last discussion, though she was sorely tempted to do so. Instead, she said, “And you don’t want to give your position away by running directly into the safety of Waycrest Manor.” 

“It’s best that my exact location remains unknown. For now, in any case.”

“Which begs the obvious question.” Sylvanas took a step closer, so that she stood between Katherine and the fire, so that she was silhouetted in flame. _“Why?”_

Lips pursed, Katherine picked up her cup of tea once more. She seemed to mull over her answer in the dregs, before draining them as if for courage. “The Great Fleet is in turmoil. Lord Stormsong has declared himself Lord Admiral on the basis that I have no Heir, and therefore must give up my claim to the title. He has children of his own. His line is secure.” 

From the sidelines, Lucille added, “He also controls the Tidesages, who are assigned to every major ship of the line.”

But Katherine waved that detail away impatiently. “Yes, but that is not what swayed over half the Navy to fly the colours of House Stormsong.” 

“And what is your plan?” Sylvanas pressed. “How do you intend to win back the Navy’s loyalty?”

At that, Katherine’s eyes flashed. Glowering at Sylvanas, she set aside her cup of tea and sat up in her seat. “The Great Fleet of Kul Tiras remains devoted to the Admiralty. That is not within question. This is a problem of succession, not of loyalty.” 

“Then who do you intend to name as your Heir?” Sylvanas gestured towards Lucille with a sneer. _“Her?”_

Lucille looked affronted at the notion. Meanwhile, Katherine shook her head sharply. “Certainly not. Lucille hasn’t a drop of Proudmoore blood in her. Whoever it is must be related to Daelin’s line, or the balance will never be restored. As soon as the Ashvanes and Stormsongs have finished sweeping up Drustvar, they will turn on each other, and Kul Tiras may know civil war for generations.”

And yet for reasons unknown, Lucille had stopped Sylvanas from mentioning Jaina’s name at all. She could tell her anyway. Doubtlessly both Katherine and Jaina would be in her debt. 

But instead Sylvanas smiled. “Well, well. How times change,” she murmured. She approached Katherine’s chair and picked up the falcon-headed cane. “One moment you did not want my help, or even to keep my company. Now you need both.”

Katherine’s expression was pinched and sour. “Elves always did love the sound of their own voices. Spit it out. What do you want in return?”

For a moment Sylvanas merely toyed with the cane, tracing the falcon’s beak with her thumb. When she put pressure beneath the curved beak, the grip came away, revealing that it was in fact a sword cleverly disguised as a mere walking implement. Admiring it, Sylvanas sheathed the weapon once more. 

“Nothing.” Sylvanas handed the cane back over to Katherine. _“Yet._ You may stay at our encampment on the Eastern Cliffs near Falconhurst. You will be safer there. It’s further from the action.”

Snatching the cane sword from Sylvanas’ hands, Katherine snapped, “I didn’t spend the last six years of my life at sea commanding Azeroth’s greatest Navy only to hide from battle like some milksop.”

“I think the Golden Fleet of Zandalar might have opinions about that particular statement, but I’ll not quibble over semantics.” She stepped away from Katherine so that she was no longer looming over her. “You may remain at Swiftwind Post, but I am assigning you a protection detail.”

Propping her cane back against the side of the chair, Katherine sniffed. “Jailors, more like.”

“Your bodily safety is of utmost importance. And, I’ll admit -” Sylvanas said, “I cannot permit you to just waltz about my camp without some manner of escort. If you speak with me beforehand, I can arrange for my people to take you wherever you need. Within reason, of course.” 

An expression of hastily restrained disgust flickered across Katherine’s features. “You don’t mean for my guardsmen to be Undead, do you?”

Sylvanas levelled a dark look at her. “You come crawling to my doorstep,” she hissed. “and you have the gall to -?”

To her surprise, Katherine sighed. She brought a gloved hand to her face and rubbed at her brow. When Katherine looked back up, the steel had gone from her shoulders. In the place of the implacable Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, there sat a tired old woman. Her voice was warmer, softer, more sincere. “Forgive me, Sylvanas. That was inappropriate, given the circumstances.” 

Scowling, Sylvanas bit back the acrid taste of indignation and something uglier that brewed in her gut. She did not realise the fire had dimmed in the presence of her anger until the shadows lengthened across the room. It was a challenge to keep her words low and even. “They will be Tauren, if you prefer.”

To that Katherine said nothing. She merely inclined her head in quiet acceptance. 

From the base of the stairs, Lucille cleared her throat. “So, she can say your name, too?” she accused, pointing at Katherine. 

Sylvanas rolled her eyes. “Last I checked, you’re not the Lord Admiral, either.” 

Sylvanas walked towards the front door and opened it. A quick command was all it took for the Highmountain Tauren from before to tower in the doorframe. He needed to turn sideways and duck down in order to step inside. Once through the door, he stooped, his massive shoulders remaining hunched. 

Sylvanas gestured to him. “This is Tatanka Thunderchaser. He will be your escort and primary point of contact. Tatanka,” she pointed to Katherine. “This is the Lord Admiral, and your new ward until I say otherwise.” 

Katherine was rising to her feet, one hand using the cane and the other pushing off from the arm of the chair. She took inventory of Tatanka’s appearance, his dark shaggy fur, his palmate antlers, the streaks of bold red paint around his face and arms. When he bowed to her, she returned the gesture with surprising grace for someone who walked with a heavy limp in every other step. 

“I don’t suppose you have any more of that excellent tea of yours?” Katherine asked as she crossed the room towards him. “Honestly, you could make a fortune smuggling the stuff into Boralus.”

His answering chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest. “I’m not much of a smuggler, Lord Admiral, but I’m sure we can manage another cup for an honoured guest.”

When he offered his arm, she took it. As the druid was showing Katherine out -- the two of them already engaged in friendly conversation once more -- Lucille went to follow but Sylvanas stopped her with a hand at her upper arm. 

“Not you.” Sylvanas murmured. “I would like a few more words with you before you slip away again, Lady Waycrest.”

Lucille winced, and Sylvanas loosened her grip. She hadn’t thought she had been holding her so tightly, but that seemed to do little to lessen Lucille’s discomfort. Sylvanas released her entirely, and Lucille shuffled away a few steps until there was some distance between them. 

Ah. So, that was the issue. 

“If we’re going to be allies, you’re going to have to pretend to tolerate my presence,” Sylvanas said dryly. The sting of social stigma had long since lost its bite. Sylvanas barely felt it these days. Not unless there was some sudden rude reminder of her past -- seeing her sisters; seeing her homeland. 

“It’s not that,” Lucille insisted, even as she balled her hands into fists and looked anywhere but at Sylvanas. “It’s just -” She made a weak gesture towards the cabin that served as Sylvanas’ headquarters. She appeared faintly ill. “I have bad memories. Of the Undead. Of witches. Of my family. It’s not you, or your people.”

Sylvanas had heard stories of the Drust incursion some years ago, the conflict that took the lives of the previous Lord and Lady Waycrest. How Lady Meredith Waycrest had attempted to summon Gorak Tul into the mortal world, leading a coven of witches, corrupting her husband into a ghoulish construct, defiling Waycrest Manor until it was a ghostly shadow of itself, teeming with undead. The people of Corlain still whispered that the place was haunted. What Sylvanas had seen of it atop the hill had loomed like a gothic portrait, all spires and gargoyles and clinging darkness lanced through with lightning, something she might read about in a penny dreadful sold on the streets of Dampwick Ward. 

“I shall maintain my distance, then.” Tilting her head, Sylvanas indicated that Lucille should take a seat upon the chair opposite her desk. She herself rounded the desk and sat in her own seat. Sylvanas waited until Lucille had made herself comfortable -- or at least given the semblance of comfort, given her obvious uneasiness around the Undead -- before speaking, “Now, tell me: why the secrecy about our beloved High Thornspeaker?”

Lucille did not answer immediately. She fiddled with a pleat in her dress. “I’ve known Jaina for a long time. Since we were children,” she finally said. “When she disappeared into the forest, I didn’t see her for years. And when she came back out she was -” Lucille shrugged. “- different. Harder. She’s had every opportunity to go back to Boralus after her father died, but she’s never done it. I may not know the reasons why she stays away from her family, but I know better than anyone that family can be... _complicated.”_

Sylvanas grimaced. Her only reply was a hummed note of distaste and understanding in the back of her throat.

Clasping her hands together in her lap in an attempt to keep herself from fidgeting, Lucille straightened in her seat. “Use Katherine as leverage, if you must. Oh, don’t give me that look. I know what this is about. I’m not stupid. But please -” Lucille cast Sylvanas a pleading glance. “- speak with Jaina first before saying anything. That’s all I ask.”

“That rather defeats the purpose of leverage,” Sylvanas drawled. “But your point is well received. I am not as cruel as you might have been led to believe.”

Lucille’s expression could only be described as wary. Like a prey animal that was locked in a cage with a lion. “Aren’t you?”

Sylvanas smiled at her, baring a bit of fang. “Only to my enemies, Lady Waycrest. Are you my enemy?”

Hastily, Lucille shook her head.

“How fortunate, then.” Picking up a pen, Sylvanas dipped it into an inkwell. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her, and began to make notes. “Now, I’m going to need some information from you about your latest deployments and military expenditures. How is your supply corps holding up?”

Lucille seemed startled by this sudden line of questioning. “They’re fine, as far as I’m aware. We have enough food to sustain us through to next spring even without Jaina's help. Why?”

“Because,” Sylvanas shot her an amused glance over the table, “I’m going to need to know, so I can give you those reinforcements you asked for.”

* * *

For the last two weeks, Jaina had been sending information regarding troop positions and plans via Lucille or Arthur. He would arrive in various animal forms outside Sylvanas' command centre at Swiftwind Post. Not once had he appeared human. Most notable was the time he shoved his way through the front door as a bear with twisted branches for legs and a bleached skull for a face. The Forsaken guardsmen had long since learned to recognise him on sight and let him in without any hassle, but Nathanos maintained that Arthur's manner was utterly inappropriate. Moreover, that Arthur ought to be taught a lesson on propriety in the presence of one's social betters. Nathanos would often say this while stroking the handle of an axe, glaring holes at Arthur, who in turn was completely unconcerned with the murderous intent nearby. 

Today thankfully he arrived in the form of a raven, which seemed to be his preferred form most times. "Knock, knock!" Arthur said as the Forsaken guard opened the door and allowed him to fly inside. 

When he landed on Sylvanas' desk, she did not even glance up at him. She continued reading her latest reports from Orgrimmar, news of border disputes and power plays between various internal factions. "Long flight?" she asked. 

"Not too bad, thank the Tides." 

"I hope you have good news for me."

He held out his leg, to which paper had been tightly bound in a coil. "Nothing but the best for you, Dark Lady."

She did look up at that. "My, my," she murmured, setting down her report and reaching forward to untie the scroll from his leg. "I see Nathanos has finally managed to teach you some manners."

Arthur held still until she had finished taking the scroll off, at which point he shuffled his feathers. "Anya told me I should call you that in private, and then call you by your first name when he was around."

Sylvanas snorted. "And you listened to her?"

"I like Anya. Even though she cheats at whist. And dice."

"Have you considered that Anya told you that so Nathanos would be even more tempted to shoot you?"

Arthur cocked his head in a very birdlike manner. "Maybe. She did seem kind of angry when I helped that old lady beat her at cards. But it seemed only fair."

A small chuckle escaped Sylvanas in spite of herself. She began to unroll the paper, but stopped with a furrow in her brow. "Wait. Old lady?"

"Yeah!" Arthur hopped around her desk, inspecting the map of Drustvar and its troop movements. "The one with the cane and the nice coat. Is she a defect from the Navy or something?"

Sylvanas did not know what information was more startling. That Katherine played Anya at cards and won -- no small feat in and of itself -- or that he did not know who the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras was on sight. Perhaps it spoke more to Arthur's own seclusion within the region. The Drust were not particularly fond of the Navy, and with good reason. Years of the press and other indignities did not endear them to Kul Tiras' ruling body. Or perhaps the Lord Admiral really was so lofty a position that the average citizen could never dream of seeing her in person. She had not noticed Kul Tiran currency stamped with the faces of their rulers, as was the custom in many other places. The coins and banknotes here tended towards abstract images: anchors, ship’s wheels, cephalopods, oars, and the like. 

Regardless, it was a mercy. Arthur was the High Thornspeaker’s eyes and ears at Swiftwind Post. News of Katherine’s presence in the camp would not have reached Jaina yet.

“You might say that, yes,” Sylvanas said. She tapped the scroll against her wrist, watching Arthur. When he began to pick up tokens in his beak and move them around the map -- as if purely out of corvid pique -- she rapped her knuckles against the desk, startling him. “Stop that.” 

He stopped, but only to hop over to another part of her desk, where he began fiddling with the bronze cast base of a candlestick. She placed the tokens back into place, then unfurled the scroll. It was a dry tally and update of the mustered Waycrest cavalry units at Corlain that would be making their way over the pass at Arom's Stand before the snows got too deep. Sylvanas made an unimpressed noise as she read over the brief report. There were barely enough mounted units to justify two cavalry battalions. But they would have to do for now, until the Horde reinforcements could arrive in three months time. By that point, the Waycrest forces would be wintering in Fallhaven and repelling a full-blown siege.

If only Jaina hadn't been so stubborn. They might have been able to muster a force to Drustvar's shores sooner.

Setting aside the report, Sylvanas picked up a pen from its inkwell. She tapped a swell of ink from its nib and then updated her own ledgers. "Arthur," she said.

"Hmm?" Arthur was busying himself with prying apart the candle-holder's handle with his beak. Better that than her maps and charts, she supposed.

"I need you to send a message to Jaina for me."

At that, he turned a milky white eye upon her. He did not seem to need to ever blink. "Sure thing. Do you want me to take a scroll or something?"

"That won't be necessary. Tell her -" Sylvanas set the pen away once more. She considered the words of her message very carefully before saying, "Tell her that I must speak with her urgently. About her appalling cavalry numbers."

"Appalling cavalry numbers," he repeated slowly under his breath, as though reciting it to memory. "Right. Got it!"

She added quickly, "And tell her I will come to her again. Save her the trip."

"No problem. I'm on it."

Despite his words, Arthur did not move. Sylvanas picked up another report but paused as he continued to watch her expectantly. "What?"

He lifted a clawed foot in her direction, his talons grasping the air. "Can you open the door for me?"

She scowled at him. "Turn into a human and do it yourself."

"If I call you Dark Lady again, will you do it for me? Please? Oh, Queen of the Forsaken?"

Sighing irritably, Sylvanas stood and crossed the room to open the door just to get him to leave. 

Less than a week later, Sylvanas was once again making her way through the Crimson Forest with Arthur on her shoulder. The fog had retreated from the sea. When she arrived at the white cliffs, she could see well into the distance, where the ocean silvered beneath an overcast sky. Her wine-dark cloak whipped about her ankles. The wards permitted her presence once again without issue, but Jaina was nowhere in sight. 

Sylvanas gave Arthur a questioning look, but he lifted his wings in an avian shrug. A brief reconnoiter around the cabin proved that Jaina was not there. Sylvanas was about ready to ask Arthur to see if he could scout around, when she heard a rustling in the trees behind them. Her long ears twitched towards the noise, and she turned. 

Jaina was trudging slowly towards the cabin. For a moment Sylvanas thought she was wearing the skull mask, until she saw that the antlers belonged to a stag. She was carrying the dead animal from the shadow of the woods, its front hooves draped over her shoulders so that its back hooves dragged along the ground behind her. Blood soaked her robes. It dripped from the animal carcass and down her neck. She left red footprints in her wake. When Jaina looked up, her eyes seemed to gleam through the dim dusky air, but that might have just been a trick of the light. 

"You have a habit of catching me at bad times," Jaina said by way of greeting.

Sylvanas nodded towards the stag. "Did you go hunting?"

"I did."

Jaina continued towards the cabin, dragging the stag beneath a partially covered awning that Sylvanas had originally thought existed for gardening purposes. She heaved the carcass onto a workbench, then wiped at her face with her hand. All it accomplished was smearing the blood even more. It was then that Sylvanas noticed her hands and arms were wrought of dark and twisted wood again. 

Jaina pointed to the hilt of the hunting knife tucked into Sylvanas' boot. "Can I borrow that?"

"Only if you give it back." Even as Sylvanas said it, she reached down to pass it over. Arthur shifted on her shoulder so that he could maintain his balance. 

Jaina took the knife. She carefully ran her thumb across its edge. The moment she did so, the woodgrain began to crawl down her arms, retracting into her skin until her hands were mere flesh once more. "I thought your people preferred gold over silver."

"If you are referring to the sin'dorei, you would be correct. But my family liked to give me gifts of silver as a reminder of my namesake." 

Jaina took a moment to admire the blade. "It's a fine piece of craftsmanship," she said. Then with a fluid motion she stuck its point into the deer's stomach, cutting a slit from its neck all the way down its belly. "You wanted to talk to me about my -- how did you put it? -- _appalling cavalry numbers?"_

With a glance at the raven on her shoulder, Sylvanas said, "Arthur, give us some privacy."

Arthur waited for Jaina's nod before he took flight and winged off back over the trees. 

“Well, now I’m worried,” said Jaina dryly, even as she returned to gutting the stag. She worked quickly and efficiently, dumping the organs into a bucket on the ground -- all but for the heart, which she carefully severed from the carcass. When she pulled it free, she inspected it thoroughly before setting it aside in a wicker basket on a corner of the benchtop.

Leaning against the wall of the cabin, Sylvanas crossed her arms in a creak of leather and chainmail. “An unexpected guest has shown up at my door at Swiftwind Post.”

"Are we playing a guessing game this time?" Using the knife, Jaina began to make strategic cuts in the deer's hide. "Was it Lady Ashvane? She is the type to be lured by the promise of coin, of which you seem to have plenty to spare."

Sylvanas watched as Jaina set aside the knife on the counter in order to lift the carcass onto a hook from the awning's frame so that the stag's head dangled almost to the ground. She would have offered her help, but Jaina hauled the dead weight around with surprising ease. 

"No," Sylvanas murmured. "In fact, it was your mother."

Jaina went stock still. Beneath the bloody smears, her face paled. She turned slowly to stare. "What?" she rasped.

"Lord Stormsong has proclaimed himself Lord Admiral, and she has lost the support of the Navy due to her lack of an Heir," Syvlanas explained. 

Jaina's hands were trembling slightly. She swallowed. "Does she -? Did you tell her about -?"

Sylvanas shook her head. 

A sigh of relief escaped Jaina. She chewed at her lower lip, then snatched up the knife, gripping it tight, and turned back to the carcass. "Good," she said. Then repeated more firmly. "That's good. That's -" Jaina had begun to use the knife to peel the hide starting at the stag's hind legs, but stopped. "Why didn't you tell her?"

There was suspicion in her voice. She was gripping the hunting knife in a white-knuckled grasp, her hands slicked red and gory. 

Sylvanas cocked her head and replied calmly. "Should I have?" 

"I don't know. I am trying to think of what you have to gain by coming to me first. Or maybe you're lying again."

"You can come to Swiftwind Post and see for yourself. She's currently terrorising my Dark Ranger at cards. I'm sure Anya would see your intervention as a kindness," Sylvanas offered with a shrug. "Or you can just ask Arthur."

Immediately Jaina shook her head. With jerky motions, she set the knife back down and began tugging the hide free in a single unbroken sheet with nothing but her bare hands. "No. I'm not ready. I can't -" Jaina drew in a deep shaky breath, and pulled hard on the hide. "I can't talk to her yet."

"I understand." 

Blinking in shock, Jaina stopped and turned her wide-eyed gaze upon Sylvanas. 

"Family reunions can be difficult. Especially when they thought you were dead. Or worse." Sylvanas gestured to herself. "So, yes. I understand. And I will keep my silence. It is, after all, not my secret to tell."

Jaina's shoulders sagged in relief. Some of the colour was returning to her cheeks. "Thank you," she breathed. "I did not expect that of you. In fact, I - I owe you an apology."

Grimacing as though at a bad taste in her mouth, Sylvanas waved that notion aside. "I would prefer it if you didn't."

But Jaina continued as though Sylvanas hadn’t said anything. "I misjudged you. And for that I’m sorry. I thought you would use this as leverage against me somehow."

Her expression was far too sincere. It made Sylvanas uncomfortable. She much preferred it when Jaina was acting lofty and bored. So, of course she said, "I haven't ruled that out, mind you. I’m not above a little blackmail." 

"You won't. Not with this, you won’t.”

The confidence with which Jaina said that and returned to her task was perhaps the most aggravating part about this entire encounter. Mostly because she was right. Sylvanas hated it when she was right. How utterly infuriating. 

Jaina wiped the bloodied knife clean and handed it back. “You said silver was a reminder of your namesake?”

“A nickname. My sisters used to call me Lady Moon.” Sylvanas propped her foot atop the bucket of offal in order to sheathe her hunting knife once more in her boot. Its silver handle gleamed at her calf, always within easy reach. 

“And I presume they didn’t take it very well?” In explanation, Jaina made an all-encompassing gesture at Sylvanas. 

“They did not.” 

Most times, Alleria refused to talk to her. When she did, it always ended up in a screaming match, which benefited no one. And Vereesa spoke to her as though speaking over a grave. Everything in the past tense. Lots of tears involved. Sylvanas could hardly stand it. Not to mention, she wasn’t allowed anywhere near her nephews. Both for being Undead and for being Horde. 

But as Lucille had said: family was….complicated. 

Jaina had returned to skinning the deer. She seemed more relaxed now. She certainly didn’t give the impression that she wanted to be alone. Sylvanas had learned from her last visit that Jaina could, at will, have an aura of menace that rivalled her own. But she didn’t have that now. 

“When was the last time you saw Katherine?” Sylvanas asked. 

Giving a particularly vicious yank downwards on the deer hide, so that it peeled away from the membrane that attached it to muscle, Jaina grunted. “At the gallows in Unity Square. She made me watch them hang Tandred. And later that night, she had a loyal guardsman put a bag over my head and drag me to Drustvar.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Human ages are strange to elves, but twelve seems rather young even for humans.”

“It is.” Another vicious tug at the hide. She pulled it over the carcass’ shoulders. “My brothers were quite a bit older than me. Tandred was nineteen when he died.” 

“Hmm.” Sylvanas nodded. “There’s an age gap between myself and my siblings as well.”

“Oh?”

“That’s not an invitation for me to talk about them, though.”

Jaina snorted. “Hypocrite.” 

Gamely accepting the accusation with a shrug, Sylvanas said, “I will make sure Katherine stays at Swiftwind Post, so you don’t go running into her by accident. I propose our future meetings to discuss the coming battles be either at the Horde encampment on the Eastern Cliffs, or here. Whichever you prefer.” 

At last Jaina managed to tear the hide the last of the way free. It peeled back like the rind of a nectarine from the incisions around the stag’s neck and legs, so that she held it up in one sheet, perfectly intact. She folded it into a roll, and then placed it on the ground by the workbench to be dealt with later. Wiping at her brow with the back of one hand, Jaina nodded towards her. “Do you still have that token of mine?”

Jaina was holding out her other hand, still grimy with dried blood. Digging around in one of the leather pouches at her belt, Sylvanas passed the fang to her without question. Jaina took it and without another word, stepped around the deer carcass and started walking around the cottage. Puzzled, Sylvanas followed. A short stint found them both standing near the front entrance, where Jaina unexpectedly squatted down on the ground. Daubing a bit of coagulated blood from her clothes onto her fingers, she drew a series of runes on the ground. When she whispered in an ancient unintelligible tongue, the sound echoed faintly on the breeze, and the hair on the back of Sylvanas’ arms and neck stood on end. 

The fang hung from its string over the runes, suspended in air even when Jaina let go of it. As soon as she finished mumbling whatever spell she was casting, the fang dropped to the ground with surprising weight, heavy as a lodestone. 

Clearing her throat, Jaina picked up the fang and stood. She casually handed it back to Sylvanas as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “There,” Jaina said. “If you ask this token nicely, it will now teleport you to this spot.” She indicated the runes on the ground with her foot. “And when you use it again, it will return you to the exact location you were before.” 

Rather than be pleased, Sylvanas glared at her. “You couldn’t have given this to me sooner? You know it takes at least three days to get here?”

“I didn’t trust you sooner.”

With a disdainful sniff, Sylvanas nevertheless stuck the fang back into her pouch. “I don’t suppose you have a map inside? We should go over a few things while I’m here.”

“I do. But I was rather hoping to take a bath before it grows dark. In case you haven’t noticed -” Jaina gestured to the blood and mud caked onto her clothes, her arms and legs, even on her braid. “- I’m filthy.”

“Tomorrow?” 

Jaina thought about it before saying, “I should be free in the evening, yes. So long as you don’t mind if I eat while we talk about military matters.” 

“Fine,” Sylvanas relented. "I meant what I said, by the way.”

Blinking in confusion, Jaina said, “About what?”

“Your cavalry numbers really are abysmal."

Jaina laughed.

* * *

When Jaina had said she needed to ‘ask the token nicely,’ Sylvanas hadn’t thought she had meant that literally. Standing in her private quarters at Swiftwind Post, Sylvanas held the fang by its string. 

"Take me to Jaina," she said. 

Nothing happened. 

With a scowl, she lifted it to eye level. "Take me to Jaina," she growled, then added, "Please."

There was a wrenching sensation in her gut, as though a harpoon had been lodged in her stomach and then yanked. A whirl of colour and darkness, and suddenly she was standing on the glyph of blood marked outside of Jaina's cabin. She stuffed the fang back into her pouch, then knocked on the door. 

Jaina opened it and waved her inside with a wooden cooking spoon, "Shoes off, please." 

It took Sylvanas a moment to rid herself of her greaves and boots, leaving them at the door along with her weapons. Jaina had already disappeared back inside. The skull mask greeted her on its hook by the exit. Closing the door behind her, Sylvanas stepped further into the living room.

The house was filled with the smells of cooking. Jaina was already spooning herself a serving of what appeared to be a hearty stew into a bowl. She did not offer any to Sylvanas. That suited Sylvanas just fine; she did not like eating unless absolutely necessary. Usually that necessity was due to the living wanting her to keep up appearances for their sake. She had not needed to eat to sustain herself for years. And ridding her stomach of whatever she consumed was always messy. 

This time, the table before the fireplace was stretched with a map of Drustvar. It was far more detailed than the one in Sylvanas' outposts. Extra notes had been scribbled here and there in Jaina's cramped handwriting. Most notably were the addition of extra sites that Sylvanas had never encountered during her time here. All with the 'Gol' preffix before their names. Drust sites, then. 

Jaina sat in the same chair she had frequented last time, gesturing for Sylvanas to take the nearby couch again. She tucked into her stew, balancing the bowl in her lap so she could study the map while she ate. "You'll be pleased to know that I've managed to levy an extra five hundred infantry."

Sylvanas' eyebrows rose. "Since yesterday, you mean?"

Spoon in her mouth, Jaina nodded smugly. 

"You work quickly," Sylvanas murmured. She sat on the couch, resting her elbows upon her knees and leaning over the map. She pointed at Fletcher's Hollow. "Ah, yes. I see them here. Do you have a spare pen I might use?"

"Mmm!" Jaina hummed a note of affirmation around a mouthful of food. She set the bowl down on the map, and went to bustle around a bookshelf. When she returned, she handed Sylvanas a quill and inkwell. 

"Thank you," Sylvanas murmured, taking the items. 

She pulled a small ledger from a pouch at her belt, a mirror of the larger one she kept at each Horde outpost. While she updated it, Jaina sat back down and returned to her meal. 

Sylvanas looked up from her notes. “I don’t suppose you’ve acquired any more cannons in the last twenty four hours as well?”

“We now have a total of fifty,” Jaina said. “And roughly two thousand artillerymen to man and supply them.” 

Flipping to another page in the little notebook, Sylvanas scratched a few figures onto the parchment. “Make it one hundred guns and four thousand artillerymen.”

“We can’t. We simply don’t have that number.”

Sylvanas shot her an exasperated look. “No, I am giving you those numbers.”

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Jaina’s chewing slowed. She swallowed, then said, “You told me you weren’t storing munitions at your sites.”

Sylvanas blinked innocently at her. “I wasn’t.”

_“Sylvanas.”_

Lifting one shoulder in an elfin half shrug, Sylvanas said, “I was stowing them offshore. In Suramar, if you must know. And since it’s only four weeks to sail from Drustvar to Suramar, I ordered them to begin shipment three weeks ago. They will arrive here just in time for whatever action we may require.”

Jaina made an irritated noise.

“You can hardly be angry with me for being a bit inventive,” Sylvanas said.

“I can. And I will.”

In reply Sylvanas rolled her eyes. She lowered the notebook and pen into her lap, hand poised to continue writing. “I received news from Zandalar recently. We managed to sign a treaty. They are now going to be counted among the ranks of the Horde. Which means we’ll have ships to help break the siege of Fallhaven come spring.”

Slowly Jaina lowered her spoon back into her bowl. She regarded Sylvanas carefully. “Congratulations, I suppose.”

“Thank you.” 

“Another notch for your belt.”

Sylvanas sniffed. “How crude.” 

“But true.” Setting aside her bowl as though she had lost her appetite, Jaina said, “Don’t ship them off just yet. I’ll need to ensure we can properly support them. Food isn’t a problem of course, but other supplies might be.” 

“And how many battlemages do you have in total now?” Sylvanas asked.

“House Waycrest has none they can spare. Many either died during the incursion a few years ago, or are no longer able to fight. Too young. Too old. Too injured.” Crossing her legs and leaning back in her seat, Jaina said, “But I personally have about forty druids that we can field. Including myself.” 

Sylvanas could feel her eyebrows rise in spite of herself. Back when she was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon, battlemages were parcelled out to her very rarely. She’d had to rely far more heavily upon standardised artillery than upon mages in wartime. Even now as Warchief of the Horde, having forty mages attached to a single division was -- in short -- a luxury. 

Mages were both like and unlike fancy artillery pieces. On the one hand, you couldn’t just order in a new set from some goblin factory. But on the other hand, they could win you the battle through feats of raw firepower alone. Quite literally, in some cases. 

“And you expect that we won’t finish until next year?” Sylvanas said incredulously. “When you have _forty battlemages?”_

“Druids,” Jaina corrected. 

Sylvanas waved away the technicality. “Do the Ashvanes even have battlemages of their own?”

“We have to assume they are still using Tidesages for now.” Sighing, Jaina rubbed at her forehead. “Have your backup artillery and soldiers ready to march for Barrowknoll soon. We’ll group just north of Swiftwind Post, and move from there.” 

“Have there been any Ashvane movements that I should be aware of?”

“None yet. But there will be. Call it a hunch.”

“One you can see from orbit.” Checking to see if her words were dry on the pages, Sylvanas set aside the quill and ink. She snapped her little notebook shut. “In any case, you look tired, and I should take my leave for the evening.” 

Still kneading at her brow, Jaina gave a little murmur of appreciation. Sylvanas rose to her feet and turned to leave. Jaina said nothing further on her way out, though Sylvanas paused at in the entryway. 

The skull mask watched her. And just below it on the ground was the singed little wicker effigy made by Mace. She had not noticed it when she had first entered the cabin. Now, a chill raced across her skin. She glanced over her shoulder, but Jaina was scowling down at the map and scrawling more notes on its surface. 

Jaina must have felt the weight of Sylvanas' gaze upon her, for suddenly she looked up. She smiled, but it did not seem to reach her eyes. "Good night. Will you come around again tomorrow."

"The day after," Sylvanas answered. "I have a few things of my own to attend to."

"I look forward to it."

Yanking open the door, Sylvanas stepped outside and left. 

* * *

Even when she had been alive, she had always been suspicious of events going according to plan. There was always something that threw a wrench into the mix, so to speak. Over the next week, Sylvanas kept a watchful eye out for any such wrench, and was stymied when she could not find it. 

The ships from Suramar arrived, slipping up the eastern coast of Drustvar and past the Ashvane forces without any hassle, even though Sylvanas had contingency plans put in place just in case. Her rangers were not needed to save the ships from a watery grave, and the arrival of guns and artillerymen were well received. Jaina and Lucille had both been equal parts thrilled and relieved to hear the news. 

Mostly relieved, if she were being honest. And she could hardly blame them. One could never have too much artillery. Back when she had been Ranger-General of Silvermoon, her troops had teased her for her increased emphasis on artillery, calling them 'Windrunner's Kings.' The artillery division had even given themselves patches with a crown insignia on their uniforms, a fact which Sylvanas had always dreaded would make its way back to Kael'thas one day. And indeed there had been political hell to pay for a few years when it had. 

The arrival of more artillery did little to brighten her mood, however. Sylvanas approached the Highmountain Druid assigned to Katherine one day, questioning him about the Drust. He proved himself next to useless. While he thought the Drust odd, he could find no fault with their magic even if it was rather more macabre than most other Druidic schools. When he started droning on about 'the balance between life and death' and 'the fascinating equilibrium of mortality,' Sylvanas lost all interest. 

If there was one thing she had never been good at, it was listening to long-winded explanations of magic. And Druids were the worst sort. Always on about vague mysticism this, and restoring the balance that. What drivel. 

Jaina herself was no help either. Now that Sylvanas could take frequent visits without wasting precious time, she did so. Based on how long it had taken her to convince Jaina to agree to this arrangement in the first place, Sylvanas had prepared herself for the worst. As it turned out, Jaina was surprisingly cooperative now. Mostly this seemed to extend to the fact that Sylvanas had not told Katherine about her daughter. 

And even Katherine was not as difficult to deal with as Sylvanas had originally thought. The world really was coming to an end. When Sylvanas started probing for more information about the information Katherine had received during the Drust incursion, the Lord Admiral merely leaned back in her chair before the fireplace with a mournful look.

“This is what you interrupted my game of cards for?” Katherine asked, though she sounded more weary than belligerent. “I would have beaten your little Ranger again, too, given a few more minutes.”

“I have no doubt of that. Tea?” Sylvanas offered a cup, pouring it from a pot and adding a splash of milk. It had been how she’d lured Katherine away in the first place. 

“Thank you.” Katherine held out her hand and took the cup and saucer. “Why the sudden interest in the Drust incursion?”

Sylvanas propped her ankle atop her opposite knee, sitting with one leg splayed. She did not partake in any tea herself. “Originally, I’d thought you only had two children, but I’ve recently learned you had three. A daughter. Jaina.” 

The cup stopped dead in its tracks before Katherine could take that first sip. She set it back upon its saucer, then balanced both atop the arm of her chair. “I did,” she said softly. 

“What happened?” Sylvanas asked. She kept her voice delicate and aloof.

With a sigh, Katherine picked up the cane that was leaning against her bad leg. For a moment Sylvanas thought she was going to push herself upright and hobble away, but Katherine only turned the cane between her fingers, as though admiring the falcon head wrought from pure polished silver. “It’s not that complicated, really. She developed magical talents very young. Her father and I fought about it. There’s no magic blood innate in his side of the family, you see. So, of course it was all my fault. And then he wanted to cloister her away with the Tidesages, to live out her days as some mute, robed Sister.”

Katherine snorted in derision and shook her head, falling silent. Sylvanas said nothing. She waited for her to continue. 

“I thought that by sending her away to the Drust, I was protecting her. And then -” Katherine gave a wave of her hand. “For naught. In the end, I might as well have let Daelin send her to the Monastery. Grief comes for you in strange ways,” she mused, fiddling with her cane. “The news came to me over a week after she had died. Somehow, the idea of her being alive was a hope in and of itself. And after I knew she was gone, I saw emptiness everywhere.” Then she gave an unexpected snort. “I was even sad to hear the Old Bear had passed away.”

“Old Bear?” Sylvanas repeated, puzzled.

“Ulfar. The last of the great High Thornspeakers.” Katherine smiled wistfully at the flames dancing in the hearth. “I remember my grandfather telling me tales when I was a child of Ulfar haunting the forests and mountains. A great bear lashed together by bone and vines that would protect the animals from greedy hunters by eating their livers.” 

She chortled, and Sylvanas shot her a puzzled look. Kul Tirans had a very queer sense of whimsy, indeed.

“From what I understand,” Sylvanas said. “The last time she was seen in Boralus was at her brother’s gallows.”

Katherine went white. She jerked in her seat so suddenly she nearly sent the teacup and saucer crashing onto the floor. “Who told you that?”

In reply, Sylvanas only shrugged. 

Setting down her cane to steady the cup, Katherine took a moment to collect herself. She fussed over the spot of tea she had spilled onto the saucer before answering, “Whoever your sources are, they’re very good.”

“They also wish to remain anonymous,” Sylvanas said. 

“Hmm.” Katherine pursed her lips. She took a sip of the tea. “It’s true. And she was wroth with me. As wrathful as only a child can be. But it served its purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Well, she never did try to come back when her father was still Lord Admiral, did she?” Katherine gave her a thin smile and added, “Better angry with me and alive, than the alternative.”

* * *

Through the second story window, Sylvanas was overlooking the valley below Swiftwind Post when she received the news. In her hand, she toyed with the fang token, rolling the texture of it between her fingers. She hummed to herself idly, a half forgotten tune of home. The notes lingered in the dusty corners of the room that she called her own here in Drustvar. This place could not have been less like Quel’Thalas, yet the memory of home had washed over her today like a storm. 

“You’re in a good mood,” remarked Nathanos from the doorway behind her. 

The song trailed off in the back of her throat, but her next words still held onto it, as though reluctant to let it go. "There's no threat of the Legion. We have signed a treaty with Zandalar. We have the Alliance on the back foot. And we are on the cusp of instigating a revolt in foreign lands." Sylvanas said. Her reflection in the glass smiled, and she turned around to face him. "I haven't had this much fun in years."

"Perhaps I should caution you on having too much fun." Nathanos gave Jaina’s token a pointed look.

Sylvanas stiffened. Her hand gripped the fang so tightly she could feel its point dig into the leather of her glove. She aimed a glower at him and stashed the token away again. All levity vanished. "And perhaps you should hold your tongue."

He inclined his head in a quiet apology. But what he said was, “I do not share your ease, I’m afraid. This whole situation feels off. I keep expecting to find something behind every corner. Like a Draenei nesting doll. Hosts within hosts within hosts.”

Her mouth twisted to one side, but her ears cocked inquisitively. “Yes,” she said. “I can understand that sentiment.” 

Nathanos held up a small scroll, the kind that was usually wrapped around Arthur’s leg. “The High Thornspeaker has sent another message.” 

In reply, Sylvanas held out her hand. He crossed the room and gave it to her, then stood back in respectful silence while she unfurled it. Her crimson gaze skimmed across the message. She looked at him over the scroll, then handed it back to him. 

“Assemble the troops,” she said. “We march on Barrowknoll tomorrow morning.” 

With a bow, Nathanos turned heel and left to do as ordered. 

It took two days for a division of twelve thousand soldiers to march west for the hills due south of Barrowknoll. Sylvanas was used to personally commanding more impressive forces -- at the very least whole corps fifty thousand strong -- but she had fond memories of smaller detachments like this. Back when little had been expected of her, when her older sister was next in line to inherit the title of Ranger-General of Silvermoon, and Sylvanas was left to the excitement of border skirmishes and tactical missions with a trusted coterie of colonels and captains at her beck and call. 

Now, Sylvanas rode, bored, at the head of a force her younger self would have been eager to command. The horse beneath her clattered softly with every step, the rattle of its bones muted only somewhat by a saddle and royal drapery. She had been able to summon a skeletal horse to ride. This far east, Jaina’s iron-clad will over the dead was not as strong as it was in the heart of the Crimson Forest, allowing Sylvanas to snap her fingers and bones to rush from the ground with soothing familiarity. 

What wasn’t so soothing was the Lord Admiral’s presence at her side. Katherine rode as though she had been born in a saddle. Her wound did little to diminish her skill. Her bad leg was set in a brace, and her silver-headed cane strapped where a cavalry sword would have normally sat for easy access. She wasn’t the chatty sort -- thank the Sun -- but Sylvanas always had the impression that Katherine’s silences were secretly passing judgement. As though every order Sylvanas issued could have somehow been improved. Sylvanas ignored her as best she could, speaking instead to her rangers to pass the time.

On the end of the second day, they met Jaina and Lucille at the foothills southeast of the pass from Arom’s Stand. The two divisions combined created a motley army, all a-clash with colour and equipment. If Sylvanas had been younger -- and alive-- the lack of standardisation and coherence would have given her hives. As it was, she merely wrinkled her nose.

Sylvanas was already ordering camp to be made for the night, when Jaina and Lucille rode up to greet them. While Lucille sat astride a smoke-dark charger, Jaina’s mount was a more unconventional stag. It looked like the Wild God from the forest, but smaller and with a less lustrous white coat -- an offspring of Athair, perhaps. With her skull mask, and her dark mantle of leaves, and a massive raven perched on her shoulder, she looked every inch a High Thornspeaker. 

Straightening in her saddle, Sylvanas said, “You’re not looking so unkempt today, Arthur. Did you finally discover the joys of a bath?”

The raven on Jaina’s shoulder snapped its beak in reply. Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow in surprise. 

"That's enough of that now, Adalyn," Jaina chided. Then she turned to Sylvanas. "Don't mind her. She's just very protective."

"I can see that,” Sylvanas murmured. “I trust the mountains weren’t too difficult to cross?”

Lucille shrugged and answered, “They could have been worse. We won’t be getting back over them anytime soon, though.” 

At Sylvanas’ side, Katherine shortened her grip on the reins when her horse stamped an impatient hoof and began pawing at the soft ground. “You must be the new High Thornspeaker.” She nodded curtly to Jaina in a greeting. "Katherine Proudmoore. Lord Admiral."

"I know," Jaina answered. Her voice was even and cool.

Frowning in confusion at this chilly reception, Katherine remarked, "You're not a bear. Or any other type of animal."

"No. But I can be."

"And what is your name?" Katherine asked.

Jaina's answer was wintry. "You may call me: High Thornspeaker."

An uncomfortable silence descended over them. Eventually, Lucille cleared her throat awkwardly and jerked her head for Katherine to follow her. “If you’d like to come with me, Katherine.”

“I think I would.” Katherine shot Jaina one last puzzled look, then kneed her horse to trail after Lucille’s. The two of them rode off towards the Waycrest camp.

Sylvanas watched them go. “Follow them,” she said to Velonara and Tatanka. “Keep reporting back, as you have been.”

Both nodded, and went after the pair, leaving Jaina and Sylvanas alone. Apart from Adalyn, who continued to glower at Sylvanas with a peculiarly corvid intensity, and Nathanos, who matched Jaina’s raven bodyguard glare for glare. 

“Well then,” Sylvanas said after another moment of awkward silence. “I thought that was a good start.”

“Don’t,” Jaina warned, her tone dark and echoing beneath the mask. 

“I am being very sincere right now.”

“Sylvanas.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Sylvanas continued talking, “To be honest, I am disappointed. There wasn’t a single punch thrown.” 

And with a sound of disgust, Jaina wheeled her stag around, riding off towards her own Drust troops. 

After she had gone, Nathanos said, “Remember what I said about having too much fun?”

“In fact, I had already forgotten,” Sylvanas drawled. “But I am sure you’ll remind me.”

He bowed in the saddle. “Only doing my duty for my Queen.” 

“Yes, that is the problem."

* * *

On the third day, they rode north, abandoning their hold on anything further south than Swiftwind Post. The only thing Sylvanas thought they had accomplished by holding out for so long to the south was depleting Asvhane’s resources. It seemed to do very little however. House Ashvane had very deep pockets, and a liberal manner with gold. Indeed, a few Waycrest troops had been lured over to wear the red by virtue of higher pay alone. Sylvanas had thought Jaina would be angry at this blatant act of disloyalty, but when Velonara reported back on figures lost, Jaina just sighed and updated her ledgers.

By mid morning of the fourth day, their combined forces had at last reached Barrowknoll. Rising up on her stirrups, Sylvanas looked out across the fields. The river Reilig wended its way through the town of Barrownknoll, forded by two bridges, both heavily guarded by Ashvane forces to the east. There would be no crossing there. Not without a bloody battle on their hands. Bloodier by far than what they could hope for here at the town proper. On the easternmost side of the town, a graveyard sprawled with tombstones of various sizes and states of weathering. It surrounded a church, which milled with artillerymen loading carts of munitions onto oxen-pulled wagons. Further east on their side of the river, a swamp spread in a great mass, extending nearly all the way to the first bridge. 

The only feature worth taking at this point was a rolling hill just south of the riverbend in which Barrowknoll was nestled. Pulling sharply back on the reins, Sylvanas nodded towards the hill. “We should establish our artillery there and shell the town.”

“I agree,” Jaina said promptly, while Katherine nodded in approval. 

“Are we confident the town has been evacuated of all civilians?” Lucille asked.

“Do you hear that, Velonara?” Sylvanas drawled. “Lady Waycrest doubts your reconnaissance.” 

“That’s not -! No, I just mean -!” Lucille spluttered, while Sylvanas and Velonara watched her flounder with amusement. 

Poor girl. She wouldn’t have survived five minutes in an elvish army. The teasing would have killed her stone dead. 

Jaina did not let this go on for long. “I’ve had a raven fly over the area closely. There are no civilians. They’ve all fled north to Fallhaven.”

Casting her a curious glance, Sylvanas asked, “Arthur?” 

But Jaina shook her head. “No. He wanted to fight. He’s in the infantry ranks.”

Sylvanas opened her mouth, realised she was going to protest, and then closed it again with a frown. 

Meanwhile, Katherine had spurred her horse forward. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s set up the artillery, and then rain fire down on these bastards.”

A number of guardsmen, including the Highmountain Druid Sylvanas had assigned, went trotting after Katherine’s horse as she rode towards the hill. Lucille followed, pulling her horse up beside Katherine, who had already begun barking out curt decisive orders with the kind of inherent authority that had Waycrest officers leaping to attention. 

Sylvanas watched all this, and said aside to Jaina in a low voice so that her words would not carry, “Your mother certainly has spirit.”

She couldn’t see any expression beneath the mask, but Jaina’s head turned towards her with a distinctly exasperated air. And rather than reply, Jaina urged the stag to chase after Lucille and Katherine. 

It took the better part of three hours to get all of the artillery into place. Oxen pulling massive carts strained at their yokes, leaving deep grooves in the wet earth behind them. Their handlers hauled at their nose rings, coaxing the oxen up the hill and into position where their goods could be unloaded. While the artillerymen carefully placed their cannons and took measurements to judge the range between them and the town, the rest of the army began to dig into the southeast of the hill in anticipation of battle. Only a stone’s throw away from their artillery, but sheltered enough by the slope that they would not be caught in the enemy crossfire. 

Sylvanas trained a spyglass on the enemy within the town, watching them do much the same. Soldiers in bold red coats scurried about in front of the church and all along the bend of the riverbank. They peered down the length of their own tools and and spyglasses. They adjusted their guns to point just so, reacting to every new order given by the unlikely Alliance between the Drust, House Waycrest, and the Horde. By the end, both battalions were sweating despite the cold damp atmosphere of Drustvar, and not a single shot had been fired yet. 

By the time they started exchanging barrages, the groundworks were nearing completion and Katherine was being poured her first cup of tea. The roar of the cannons was so loud it made the air tremble. Katherine spilled tea all down the front of her greatcoat.

“Oh, blast!” She swore. "They couldn't have warned us before they started?"

“I would have thought you’d be used to a bit of cannon fire by now,” Lucille pointed out.

Katherine scoffed. “It doesn’t work like that.” When Tatanka passed her a delicately embroidered handkerchief from one of his pouches, she murmured, “Thank you, my dear.”

When Sylvanas shot him an odd look, the Tauren shrugged his massive shoulders. “She made it for me.”

“That does not make this any better,” she growled.

“Oh, do calm down,” Katherine sighed. “Have a cup with me. You too, over there.” She waved over Jaina. “Or do you really never take off that bloody thing?”

Upon being addressed by her mother, Jaina’s already rigid posture seemed to go impossibly more tense. She mutely shook her head, turned, and strode away towards the Horde and Drust troops, which were working further east along the battlements. 

Lifting her now refilled up of tea to her lips, Katherine sipped contemplatively. She studied Jaina’s retreating back over the rim of her cup. “Your High Thornspeaker isn't very talkative," she remarked to Lucille.

“Ah, no,” said Lucille. “I mean -- sometimes she can be a bit -- well, she’s very -- uhm --”

At a loss for what to say and not give everything away, she cast Sylvanas an imploring glance. Shaking her head in exasperation, Sylvanas went back to her skeletal horse and lifted herself easily into the saddle. She tugged at the reins, wheeling the steed sharply around, and said to Lucille, “Give me your cavalry.” 

Lucille blinked up at her. “What for?”

“For their primary purpose: scouting.” 

“Just give them to her,” Katherine said. “She’s going to be boorish about it. I can tell. Always needs something to do, that one.” 

Sylvanas didn’t dignify that with a response. She waited for Lucille’s reply. 

“Very well,” Lucille relented. “Go. Scout.”

“Velonara, stay here. Nathanos, keep our High Thornspeaker company. Anya, with me.” Pointing to each of them in turn, Sylvanas did not wait for Anya to mount up before she was urging her skeletal horse forward. She could hear Anya swearing in Thalassian behind her as she tried to mount up and follow quickly enough. 

The cavalry Captain, a burly bearded man by the name of Hayles, was puzzled and initially suspicious of being ordered about by the likes of the Warchief of the Horde. But he did not question it much, despite his obvious displeasure. When Sylvanas fixed him with a crimson glare, he shoved his helm onto his head and mounted up with the rest of his battalion, grumbling all the while. 

Sylvanas led them towards the river Reilig, sweeping wide of the bend to avoid the back and forth barrage of artillery fire between the two sides. Even so, sprays of mud would explode near enough for the living horses to shy. The cavalrymen had quick hands on their reins, easily holding formation as they rode. 

There was a fork in the river on the western side of the town. Sylvanas pulled her skeletal steed to a halt at the first branch, then rode up and down the bank a few paces. She stood up in her stirrups to get a better look at the water until she found a suitable spot. 

"Here," she said, digging her heels into the horse's bare ribs out of habit alone. It only needed the lightest of touch at the reins to do her bidding.

The skeletal mount splashed out into the water, fording the river. Hayles, Anya, and the others followed. At the deepest point of these shallows, the water just barely reached the horses’ chests. Deep enough to dissuade an infantry advance, but not deep enough to completely discount it. Certainly easy enough to ford for cavalry. 

On the other side of the river, the Ashvane troops had long since noticed their presence. Now, red and white coated cavalry in far greater numbers than their own shadowed their movements. Hayles kept a grim eye upon them, drawing his sabre and resting it expertly against his shoulder as he rode a length behind Sylvanas. Meanwhile, she ignored the enemy cavalry utterly for now, paying more attention to the landscape. 

The next branch in the fork was shallower still than the first. She kept her distance. The Ashvane cavalry captain across the way was close enough that she could see the eagerness on his face beneath his crested helm. He appeared young. Hungry for a fight. Clearly he believed his numbers advantage would win him anything. He didn't realise exactly who it was that waited for him on the other side of the water. For a moment Sylvanas considered baiting him across the river for a bit of a skirmish just for the fun of it -- she had been cooped up for far too long on these rain-lousy islands, and the idea of luring a headstrong youth to his untimely demise was, admittedly, very appealing -- but eventually after a few hours of scouting and posturing, she turned the cavalry battalion back towards the southeast. She could almost hear the sigh of relief from Hayles behind her. 

The artillery barrage had not slowed during their time along the Reilig. They had arrived in the late morning, and already the sun was beginning its descent towards the horizon behind the thick bank of cloud that covered the sky. All along the fields between the hill and the town, the earth was churned up with great gouge marks from the cannonballs ripping into the ground. In the distance, the town's buildings had been mostly reduced to rubble. Only a few houses furthest away from the river had escaped unscathed. The church's belltower had collapsed. Holes riddled its wooden roof, and the air was filled with an acrid smoke so thick it was difficult to see the enemy artillerymen loading their guns. 

The cavalry had to weave their way between patches of relatively flat earth so that the horses would not break their legs. Much to Sylvanas' dismay, a drizzle had started up. The craters in the ground were starting to fill with water. Her own cloak was thoroughly damp as well. She would give her ears a periodic flick to rid them of rain, to very little effect. Anya would do the same. Hayles and the rest of the Waycrest cavalry on the other hand seemed unperturbed by the change in weather.

As they rode up behind the artillery, Sylvanas could see that the infantry had made temporary camp behind their groundworks. Soldiers were beginning to serve themselves dinner, settling in for a long evening. Every few minutes, a cannon would go off with a recoil that shoved the entire artillery piece back a few meters, and a group of twenty to thirty men would rush about like a swarm of bees to get it back into position for another round of firing. After each blast, a flinch would shiver through the ranks of infantry and cavalry nearby. Sylvanas could tell just by the reactions which were veterans and which were green bloods. 

Most, she was pleased to see, appeared to have seen battle before. Surprising, considering how quickly Lucille had levied troops. The Ashvane ranks would be filled with new blood. The Navy marines would be tied to Lord Stormsong now, and Lady Ashvane would have thrown gold around to attract anyone young and foolish enough to have a gun shoved into their hands and a red coat draped across their shoulders. 

When Sylvanas dismounted and dismissed Captain Hayles for the evening, he grudgingly saluted with his sabre before sheathing it once more at his saddle. Meanwhile, Anya was already chatting up a few of the lower ranked cavalrymen, who were easily won over by a pretty face and the idea that they would get a few games of whist with their supper. Sylvanas left them to their fate -- knowing full well that Anya would clean out their pockets and leave them high and dry before the night's end -- and went in search of the command tent. 

No less than four guardsmen flanked the command tent's entrance. On one side, the Highmountain druid assigned to Katherine and a Forsaken heavy infantryman. On the other, a Waycrest guard in full plate and a Drust in the form of a sabre cat. The Drust sat on the ground like a sphynx, its gnarled, branch-like paws crossed almost primly. It glowered balefully at Sylvanas as she approached. 

"Good evening, Adalyn," Sylvanas greeted dryly.

A rumbling growl rolled from Adalyn's fanged mouth in response. 

Sylvanas ducked beneath the tent flap and entered. Inside, Lucille, Katherine and Velonara had their heads bent over a table bearing a detailed map of the area. Lucille was drawing notes directly onto the map with careful penmanship, while Katherine pointed to various places with a murmur and a frown. On the other side of the tent, Nathanos and Jaina were engaged in an unlikely alliance, conversing softly together in their own corner. Jaina of course still wore her mask. Luckily whoever had erected the tent had taken this into account, and made the ceiling high enough that neither she nor the Tauren outside would be at risk of puncturing the canvas with a stray antler. 

The moment Sylvanas stepped inside, all heads turned in her direction. She took a moment to clean off her muddy boots before venturing further in, but she still left prints in the rugs that had been strategically placed along the ground. 

"Did you learn anything of interest?" Katherine asked immediately. 

"I did." 

Sylvanas crossed over to the table. She was joined by Jaina and Nathanos so that they all crowded around the map. They stood so close together that Jaina's elbow jostled her own. Sylvanas made a motion towards Lucille, who handed over the pen. When she tried to mark the map however, she had to dip the nib into fresh ink before trying again.

"On the banks of the loop nearest enemy territory, the Ashvanes have built up groundworks anticipating a frontal assault on the church." Sylvanas drew a crescent-shaped line while she spoke. "Meanwhile to the west there are two areas where the river can easily be forded, should we decide to attack in that direction instead."

Leaning heavily on her cane, Katherine jerked her head towards the cluster of Waycrest troops represented by black tokens. Currently they were sitting alongside the green and purple tokens denoting the Drust and Horde forces respectively. "Lucille and I will ford the river. We'll take the Waycrest infantry and cavalry, and make the Ashvanes think we're going to push hard for their flank. They'll need to divert quite a few men to head us off. That should thin their ranks enough for you to take the town in a frontal assault."

When Lucille's name was spoken, she glanced at Katherine. Not with surprise, which Sylvanas had expected, but with gratitude that there would be an experienced guiding hand helping her along. She leaned forward to arrange the tokens as Katherine had suggested. When she had done so, suddenly the Ashvane forces holding the town were equal to the Drust and Horde's. They would still be holding a defensible position, though. And the numbers advantage granted by the Waycrest movements was better than nothing, but still unideal. 

"Be aggressive, but not too aggressive," Jaina said. "I would hate to see the Lord Admiral shot down in a land battle." 

Katherine let loose a bark of laughter. "No. You're right. A Lord Admiral should die at sea, as the Tides intended." 

Remaining silent, Sylvanas licked at the backs of her teeth in a contemplative manner. Nathanos was watching her carefully. "Is there something wrong, my Queen?"

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes at the map. "No," she murmured after a moment. "It's a good plan. We will go ahead with it."

Katherine gave a curt nod, pleased at her plan being so easily approved by the others. "Well, Lucille," she said, starting to limp towards the exit. "We ought to find our own tents before it gets too late. Nothing like a poor night's sleep to ruin a battle."

"I will show you to yours." Lucille very nearly hopped to attention to follow after her.

In another life, she would have made an excellent Captain, given the chance and the right commander. Eager to please, but ultimately lacking in her own vision. Sylvanas had known many Ranger-Captains like her. Had she not been born to a Great House, she doubtlessly would have lived an unremarkable life. Which, to her credit, probably would have been preferable to the excitement that had already been crammed into her life so far. 

Turning to Nathanos and Velonara, Sylvanas said, "Give the orders. Make sure the officers know the plan."

With a bow, they too left. 

Outside, the non-stop clamour of artillery had crept to a desultory halt. Both sides would have been running low on munitions, keeping enough for the battle proper, but otherwise finished trading blows for now. The lamps that had been lit in the tent were now necessary to see, as night had swept over Drustvar. The sounds of soldiers and oxen and horses wound their way through the canvas walls. There was no such thing as privacy in a military camp. Everyone practically atop everyone else. And at any moment, someone might burst into the tent with report of enemy movements. 

Sylvanas picked up one of the red Ashvane tokens from the centre of the town map, and frowned at it. 

"Nathanos was right," Jaina said. "Something is troubling you."

Though the tent was now empty but for the two of them, Jaina had not moved away; they still stood close enough together that their arms brushed. Shaking her head, Sylvanas set the token back down, angling it so that the line of Waycrest forces was curved in an encircling crescent across the Reilig. 

"No," she said. "It’s fine."

The skull mask watched her impassively. "You're lying again. You know, I thought you'd be better at this."

"Battle?"

"No. Lying."

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas rounded the table and headed for the exit. "You're the only person who's ever told me that."

"Not even your siblings?" Jaina followed, ducking to get through the canvas flap after Sylvanas. 

"We are not talking about my family," Sylvanas said firmly. 

That comment earned her an odd look from the remaining guards outside of the tent. Straightening her shoulders, Sylvanas stalked off in the direction of the artillery still lined up along the hill. She heard Jaina murmur something to Adalyn, and then footsteps trailing after her. The stench of gunsmoke still burned in the air, but it was fading. The winds were not as harsh here as they were further south. At least her Rangers would be pleased by this change of pace. 

She stopped when she had a good view of the town. Firelight flickered like motes of dust through the darkness. With the moon hidden behind a bank of cloud, the river snaked across the landscape, darkly gleaming. 

"I didn't think you would be the type to run away from a situation you didn't like," said Jaina's voice behind her. Jaina herself stepped forward so that they stood side by side, facing Barrowknoll. 

"The irony of you saying that does not escape me," Sylvanas countered. 

"At least I'm honest with myself."

"Do you always look for a fight when you're nervous?"

"I'm not looking for a fight."

"Then you might consider not baiting me further." Sylvanas' voice slipped to a lower note, something more dangerous. A warning. 

Jaina had no reply to that. They fell silent. Sylvanas was content to let that silence stretch, when Jaina asked, "What would you do, if you were me?"

Glancing over at her, Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. “You’re actually asking my opinion?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“When has that ever made a difference?” 

“I’m curious. Indulge me.” When Sylvanas still said nothing, Jaina sighed. “You didn’t like my mother’s plan. Why?”

“I liked it just fine,” said Sylvanas evasively. “It’s very conventional.”

“But you don’t like conventional and obviously would do something different.”

Turning her eyes back to Barrowknoll, Sylvanas scanned the area for weaknesses through the gloom. The Ashvanes had gotten the upper hand in every regard. They had cut off the retreat to Fallhaven. They had taken the defensible position. They had more munitions, more soldiers, more time. Even if they simply waited, the combined Wacyrest, Horde and Drust forces would need to give up and find shelter or risk losing their lives to ice and disease through winter.

Well, the Waycrest and Drust, perhaps. Not her Undead. And maybe not the Drust, now that she thought about it. 

Sylvanas nodded, pointing to the east. “That swamp. They’re treating it like it’s an impassable wall. I would order the cavalry to screen our left flank. Then, I would throw everything at the centre, draw the enemy in, and when the fighting to the south starts to thicken, I would send an unarmoured division across by foot to flank them by surprise.”

“The artillery wouldn’t be able to support them,” Jaina said. “There’s no way you're getting cannons into that bog.”

With a shrug, Sylvanas replied, “If their sacrifice would mean my victory, then so be it.”

“Such sacrifices aren’t always necessary. And from what I understand, there aren’t many of your people that remain.”

“And to which people would you be referring?”

“You know which.” 

Pursing her lips, Sylvanas gazed out over the night-darkened fields. Beside her Jaina shifted her staff between her hands almost nervously. Noticing this, Sylvanas remarked, “You haven’t seen much battle, have you?”

“Not as much as you, perhaps. But I’ve seen enough,” Jaina answered, her tone grim. “Enough to know that being a military leader is not my first choice of professions, by any stretch of the imagination. Unlike some of us.”

Sylvanas peered sidelong at her. “You think I wanted to be Warchief? Or even Ranger-General, for that matter?” 

“I don’t -”

“No,” Sylvanas interrupted coolly. “You don’t. So, I would suggest you keep your assumptions to yourself.”

The skull mask swung towards her in silent contemplation. Finally, Jaina said, “It’s just, you’re awfully good at being a war leader.”

With a soft grunt, Sylvanas looked back towards Barrowknoll. “People get good at what they do. In time, you will grow to be a perfectly serviceable Lord Admiral.”

A self-deprecating laugh was Jaina’s answer. “Well, I don’t know what I was so worried about, then. That’s high praise from you.”

“I have very exacting standards,” Sylvanas agreed. 

“Careful,” Jaina warned, and even though Sylvanas could not see her face her words were playful and chiding. “That’s twice you’ve flattered me, now. A girl might get ideas.”

It was Sylvanas’ turn for a huff of self-deprecating laughter, almost a scoff. She gave Jaina a dismissive wave. “Go. Try to get some sleep. My people and I will keep watch.” 

She expected some resistance, but Jaina simply inclined her head and left. 

The night was short, and nothing at all interesting happened. No raids. No alarms. The Ashvane forces were risking nothing for the sake of initiative. They kept their position, confident in their safety in numbers. They sent no more scouts. They slept until the first grey watery light of dawn crept over the horizon. 

They were, in short, complacent. Sylvanas liked that in an enemy. It was a refreshing change of pace. 

The morning was misty and dim. The foothills to the west appeared almost idyllic, until they sloped into the fields torn up by artillery fire. All through the night, the bold red medical tents had worked, tending to those wounded in the exchanging barrage. When the camp was packed up, the medical tents were some of the few that remained behind to continue their work away from the fight. 

By the time all the troops had been organised into position, it was only a few hours until midday. The sky remained overcast, but mercifully free of rain. Not that it helped much. The ground was still horrible and soggy. It reminded Sylvanas too much of fighting in the rainy jungles of Zul'Aman. She had bad memories of leather boots completely rotting away after being saturated with mud for weeks. 

Sylvanas was sitting atop her skeletal horse beside Jaina on her stag, when Anya rode up beside her. Breaking away from her conversation with Jaina, Sylvanas gave Anya a once-over. "I don't recall issuing you a Waycrest cavalry coat."

"I won it," Anya said smugly. 

"Along with a great many other things, I'm sure."

"There's a helmet that comes with it, too."

"Is this your way of telling me that you want to ride with Velonara in the Waycrest division?"

"No," Anya replied. "I will be guarding you while Nathanos heads the troops."

"Do I get any say in the matter?"

Anya did not answer.

"Wonderful," Sylvanas sighed. She shifted in her saddle to turn towards Jaina. "Whenever you are ready."

Jaina's deer stamped one of its cloven hooves. Her head slowly turned as she swept her gaze over the troops arranged on the field before them. A mass of uniform colour to their left being the Waycrest troops in three block formations, along with a cavalry screen. And a mismatch of Undead and Druids in various forms comprising the solid blocks of infantry directly ahead. Lucille and Katherine could be seen with the Waycrest cavalry, surrounded by a cluster of other officers on foot and on horseback. 

Jaina nodded towards their own cluster of officers in attendance. Flags were waved. Trumpets were sounded. And the Waycrest forces began their march towards the river. 

In the town, large numbers of troops in red coats were broken up by the buildings. But in the fields behind them, even more Ashvane troops were arrayed in formation. Across the distance, more horns were raised, and the bulk of the Ashvane troops began to move in lockstep with the Waycrest's, both angling towards one another across the river. The only advantage of Katherine and Lucille's lesser numbers was that it allowed them to move more quickly.

Sylvanas leaned forward in her saddle to better watch as they forded the river before the Ashvane troops could cut off their advance. The moment the first Waycrest infantry had crossed the river, Sylvanas turned to one of the Forsaken officers nearby. "You there, get those guns firing again," she ordered. Then she said to another, "And you, sound the advance."

With a bony-handed salute, both of them trotted off to do as commanded. Soon, the artillerymen behind them were scurrying about the cannons. The first round of artillery fire of the morning sent a flock of startled birds into flight from the bog to their west. Sylvanas could feel the shudder of the earth even atop her horse. And then, they began to march. 

It was a slow steady plod through the mud. The officers brought up the rear just to the left of the advancing soldiers, leading a small cohort of reserve troops that would be able to accomplish very little on their own should it come to that. Enemy fire roared out in answer from the town. Cannons ripped through the advance, sending sprays of mud through the air flecked with blood and teeth as men fell screaming. But for every enemy shot, two were stalled by the presence of their own artillery blasting away at the town. More still were stopped completely by magical shields thrown up by clusters of Druids arranged along the infantry ranks for just that purpose. The shields flashed across the air in front of the advance, deflecting cannon balls into the mud, where they bounced away or cracked into pieces like shrapnel. 

One such cannon hurtled in the direction of the reserve troops, but Jaina raised her hand and it shattered in a fan of iron ore like a wave breaking against a pane of impenetrable glass. Sylvanas had never been so grateful to have mages fighting on her side. 

From the east, Sylvanas could hear the pop of shots fired. Her ears twitched towards the noise. She stood in her stirrups in an attempt to see what was happening, but the ground from Barrowknoll sloped gently upwards towards that direction. Lowering herself back into her saddle, she asked, "Do we have eyes on the Waycrest forces?" 

Jaina turned to Adalyn, who was trotting alongside the stag in the form of a sabre. "Go get vision and come back." 

Without question, Adalyn turned into a raven and swept off into the air. She returned a few minutes later and landed on Jaina's shoulder to whisper in her ear. 

"They have engaged in earnest," Jaina relayed to Sylvanas. "Nobody has given ground yet. The cavalry are attempting to outflank one another, but Hayles is holding his own." 

Sylvanas spoke directly to Adalyn. "Get flying again and keep us informed. I want to know exactly if and when someone starts to buckle." 

In response, the raven gave Sylvanas an extremely unpleasant look with one black and beady eye. But Jaina murmured something in a low tone. With a caw of complaint, Adalyn nevertheless took flight from Jaina's shoulders, wheeling back towards the east. 

The main advance on Barrowknoll slowed when they reached the river. Soldiers lifted their arms above their head to keep their muskets dry as they crossed. The Ashvane forces continued to fire from their position. Their artillery were beginning to run low on ammunition, but a line of muskets would aim and take fire over the groundworks, while others took shots from the second story of the ruined church, and even from the rooftops of nearby buildings. It may have just been a mound of dirt built as tall as a man and stretching in a crescent shape between the river and the town, but the earthworks was enough to give them cover for any returning fire launched in their direction. The Ashvane soldiers would duck back behind the earthworks when lightning was called from the sky, sending sprays of earth in all directions and leaving behind the stench of burnt ozone and flesh. 

Sylvanas and Jaina remained on the other side of the river with their reserve troops and cluster of officers. Even though Adalyn did as told and returned with regular updates on the enemy position, Sylvanas urged her skeletal horse to pace along the riverbanks to and fro. Anya shadowed her every movement, along with a few Forsaken and a Tauren in the form of a bear with streaks of green warpaint on his fur. Glowing crimson eyes trained along the fight, searching every angle for a hint of weakness. A gap, perhaps. A flagging flank. A faint faltering of morale. The stench of gunsmoke was acrid and thick. It clouded vision beyond a hundred yards even for her excellent eyesight. 

The Horde and Drust line were fighting to take the earthworks, both sides using the long mound of compacted dirt as cover, neither willing to commit to a charge, lest they be met with deadly resistance on the other side. 

"Find anything of interest?" Jaina asked when Sylvanas rode back to the reserve troops. 

Yanking on her reins and wheeling her horse around, Sylvanas shook her head. "Not yet. I still don't like our numbers. We need to find an advantage. Preferably more than one." 

In front of them, a surge of red-coated troops washed over the earthworks on their left with a battlecry for Kul Tiras. They scrambled atop the mound of dirt and shot down upon the Horde and Drust flank. Flashes of flame spouted from the muzzles of their muskets as the gunmen made space for infantry with pikes to push their advantage. The Ashvane pikemen shoved against their left flank like a wall of living spears, while the Forsaken chopped at the pikes with hooks and axes, or otherwise stabbed at exposed feet in an attempt to break the sudden counterpush. 

When the Horde and Drust flank began to cave slightly into a fish hook shape, Sylvanas tensed. She drew her bow from her back, hands steady and expression grim. Before she could fire a single shot however, a druid on the front lines of the left flank was stabbed in the shoulder with a spear. He flung back his head with a bellowing roar that shuddered the air. His body bristled and grew massive, and he swiped at the wall of spears mid-transformation into an enormous bear. Thunder careened from his paw, shattering a huge gap into the pikemen. He lunged through, his massive jaws closing around the throat of an Ashvane pikeman and shaking like a dog with a rat. Forsaken poured after him, using the space he created to push back the counterattack. Swords flashed, and the Ashvane pikemen trying to retreat back over the earthworks slipped in pools of their own blood. Forsaken soldiers fell upon them like wolves, hacking them to pieces before scrambling to pursue the rest over the artificial hillock. 

Slowly Sylvanas lowered her bow. "That was a welcome development, at least." 

Beside her, Jaina hummed in agreement. "The break between Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane is more serious than we thought." 

Sylvanas frowned at her. "What do you mean?" 

The skull turned and Jaina's voice was positively gleeful. "You didn't notice? That magic wasn't counteracted. They don't have Tidesages. Or if they do, they're certainly not here." 

Sylvanas' eyes widened in understanding. She wheeled her horse around to start giving commands, but Jaina beat her to it. 

"Concentrate what druids we have onto the front," Jaina snapped to an officer standing nearby. "Have them break up the enemy line. Tell them to expect only physical resistance." 

"What about those we've reserved as Healers?" the officer asked. 

"They can stay where they are," Jaina said. 

Immediately, the officer raised a hand to her temple in a salute, then rushed off to do as she was told. She took a group of the reserve troops to escort her across the river and relay the orders. Meanwhile, Jaina rounded on what remained of the reserve units. 

"The rest of you," she said, lifting her voice. They all straightened, their faces eager and steely beneath their helms. "Push hard into their right flank! I want that church taken as a foothold in the next hour! Go!" 

What remained of the officers began relaying orders to start the march. Soon, the reserve troops were crossing the river to support their forces on the left, where the fight was raging the thickest. The Ashvane forces were faltering, giving ground slowly but steadily. Word of the new orders must have reached the front lines, for lightning careened down from the sky with a deafening crack. It struck the church, where a group of Ashvane musketmen had been raining down shots onto the approaching Horde and Drust. Those that weren't struck dead, were left reeling, fumbling for cover as another blast of lightning rained down upon them. 

Sylvanas had slung her bow back over her shoulder, but her fingers itched for the weapon. Where she had seen no chaos to take advantage of before, she now saw it everywhere. Every hard-earned instinct and years of experience were telling her to leap into the fray, embolden the troops, take the victory for herself, as she knew she could. She was tightening her hand on the reins, preparing to do just that, when Jaina spoke beside her. 

"Sylvanas, I want you to come with me to the western banks." 

Her head jerked around, her long ears slanting back in a mixture of surprise and aversion. "What?" she asked. Rising up in her stirrups, she looked to the west, but saw nothing of interest. The Ashvane line was faltering directly to their left, but to their right, the enemy was still holding strong. "Why on earth would we go there?" 

"I mean to overrun them." 

"With what troops?" Sylvanas waved towards their left, where the reserve troops were starting to fight tooth and nail over the church, even as they repelled an attempted counterflank from a platoon of bold Ashvane musketmen hoping to catch them in enfilade fire. 

“Leave that to me.” 

Jaina started off towards the west without another word. Swearing, Sylvanas turned to Anya and said, "You stay here. Help Nathanos hold the line." 

Anya shook her head. She opened her mouth to protest, but Sylvanas cut her off. "That's not a question, Anya. You will do this." 

With a glower at her queen, Anya looked like she was going to fight against the order still, but eventually she turned back to the remaining small cluster of officers and began issuing commands. Satisfied, Sylvanas wheeled her skeletal horse around and followed Jaina. 

No troops followed them. Not even a handful of guards. Sylvanas kept a careful watch on the enemy through the gaps of buildings, but nobody was paying any attention to two people slipping away from the thick of the fight. They might as well have been deserters fleeing the battle. When they reached the swamp, Jaina dismounted and continued on foot, leaving her stag behind. Sylvanas jerked at her own reins and called after her, "What the hell are we doing out here?"

Jaina did not turn around. She continued picking her way through the bog. "You said you wanted another advantage? I’m getting us reinforcements."

"What reinforcements?"

"Just come along already."

Grinding her teeth, Sylvanas slipped from the saddle and trudged after her. The bog was a mess. There was very little hard ground upon which to stand. Tall tussock grass masqueraded as safety, only for Sylvanas' foot to plunge into hip deep water and mud. She had to claw her way out, cursing all the while. By the time Jaina stopped, the hems of her robes were drenched, and Sylvanas' armour would need a thorough cleaning all around. 

In Barrowknoll, the fighting continued. From here, Sylvanas could not see the Waycrest troops further east. She tried rising up on her toes, but only sank a few more inches into a bit of mud. 

"I am beginning to lose patience," Sylvanas hissed. 

Jaina ignored her. She was kneeling on the ground at the edge of a deep pool of water. She held out her hand towards Sylvanas. "Your knife. Give it to me."

"No." Sylvanas crossed her arms. "Explain first. Knife later."

"Really?" Jaina glanced at her in exasperation. When Sylvanas refused to budge, Jaina rolled her eyes. She gestured all around them. "You wanted to know what was so special about this place? Bogs are sacred burial sites for Drust. This one in particular was used for generations to inhume the Drust dead. Now, give me your knife."

With a frown, Sylvanas begrudgingly handed over the silver hunting knife. Jaina took it, and then pulled out a very familiar looking singed wicker man from a pocket of her cloak. She placed both before her, and then fumbled around in a pouch for another reagent. When she withdrew a stag's black and shrivelled heart, she placed it over the wicker man's chest. A quick flash of the blade over the back of her arm drew a bright line of blood along her skin, and then Jaina plunged the knife through the heart and the wicker man, staking them together. 

She began to mumble in an ancient tongue. The sound echoed from the depths of the skull mask, growing louder as though joined by a chorus, chanting the words back to her. The air around her writhed, and the wicker man caught alight. It began to burn beneath her hands, but the fire did not consume the wicker man the way it should, as though the mass of twigs were still resisting the touch of flame. 

And from the depths of the bog, a hand reached up. Sylvanas watched as more followed, and corpses began to drag themselves from the water and mud. Their bodies were preserved as though mummified, shrunken and wet, dyed dark from the peat. Bits of bone jutted from shoulders and arms, knees and spines. Jaina's droning chant reached its zenith, and an army of the dead rose to answer her call. 

Sylvanas stared. An undead nearest her waited blankly for a command, as did all the others. There was no sentience left within them. They were empty vessels. Ghouls animated by a greater will. 

Before her, Jaina rose to her feet. Through the dark sockets of the mask, her eyes blazed with pale fire. Leaving the wicker effigy burning upon the ground, she turned to Sylvanas. "Now, we can go." 

"How long will this spell last?"

"Until the fire burns out. We have only a few hours." Jaina stepped over the wicker man, looking towards Barrowknoll. "You will get your knife back, then."

Warily, Sylvanas followed as Jaina began to stride from the bog and towards the town. Thousands of ghouls shambled blindly after them. As they drew nearer fording the eastern side of the river, Ashvane troops began pointing furiously in their direction. An alarm was raised, a frantic horn blaring a single note over and over again as the red-coated soldiers attempted to rearrange themselves in time.

Clambering up onto the opposite shore, Jaina pointed at the line of red-coated soldiers and shouted a gutteral word in that ancient tongue. Behind her, the ghouls shrieked in response, an unearthly wail that Sylvanas had heard all too many times, before they rushed forward on all fours. Shots fired out from the lines of gunmen among the Ashvane ranks, but before they could get off even a second volley, the ghouls were upon them. No amount of shot could stop their charge. Musket balls embedded themselves in rotting flesh, accomplishing little. Rows of pikemen lowered their spears and tried to shove them back. Others still drew swords and began hacking at the undead masses. Impaled ghouls continued clawing their way down the spears, and severed arms twitched along the ground. 

Jaina herself waded into the thick of the fight. She towered over the shambling army of undead, bloodied, crowned in antlers, eyes blazing like twin points of flame. When she swept her hand, broad blades of frost sliced through the air, cutting through swathes of enemy soldiers. When she clenched her hand into a fist, a clump of Ashvane troops were encased in ice, frozen in rictus agony. 

A platoon aimed down their sights towards Jaina, and Sylvanas drew back an arrow. Whispers of death magic darkened its tip, and the arrow exploded with the echo of a banshee’s wail upon its destination. The musketmen dropped their weapons to clasp their hands over their ears, crying out in pain. She managed to shoot a few more arrows before the ghouls overwhelmed them, claiming that platoon for the dead.

Sylvanas tried to regain her bearings in the chaos. In a few lithe motions she had climbed atop the shattered roof of a house to get better ground, her bow half-drawn and ready to fire. In the centre of the town, the Horde and Drust soldiers were beginning to renew their attack, emboldened by the sudden presence of reinforcements from the east. The Ashvanes were suddenly the ones on the back foot, forced to hold their ground as an onslaught came now from two sides. 

A platoon of Ashvane musketmen noticed her position. They fired a volley of shots at her position. Sylvanas ducked. Chips of stone flew around her as the gun fire missed and hit the stone walls of the building. In the time it took for them to reload, she had made most of them pincushions; they fell to the ground grasping at black-fletched arrows that stuck from their throats and chests, gurgling on pools of their own blood. 

Below her, a group of Ashvane troops managed to hold their ground against the oncoming ghouls by funneling the undead into a spear wall and shooting over the pikemen. One of the soldiers saw Jaina advancing past their position, and in a fit of bravery near madness he threw down his musket, drew his sword and charged for her. She turned just as he slashed his blade in an upward strike, narrowly missing but managing to knock her mask loose. 

She stumbled back a step. The skull went careening onto the ground, one of the points of the antlers breaking off in the scuffle as ghouls continued to press past her. When she straightened once more, her eyes blazed. She loomed over the soldier. He swung his sword down like a cleaver, but Jaina grabbed his wrist, halting the blow. Sylvanas had an arrow drawn to shoot him, but stopped. With her other hand, Jaina was lifting the soldier by the scruff of his neck until his toes dangled above the ground. He dropped the sword. It clattered at her feet. Grasping at her forearm, he opened his mouth to scream but instead veins of black crawled across the skin of his face. As Jaina drained the life from him, vines burst from the ground, curling around the other soldiers and dragging them down into the earth. 

When Jaina tossed his lifeless corpse aside as though he were a ragdoll, Sylvanas leapt easily down from the building, landing beside her. "I didn't know Druids were in the habit of practising necromancy."

"You didn't ask." Jaina nodded towards the rooftop. "What's the situation?"

Casually, Sylvanas lifted her bow and fired an arrow at an Ashvane soldier as she answered. "I don't know how Katherine and Lucille are doing, but our forces in the town are gaining the upper hand." 

"Then we should press on and finish this quickly." 

"Agreed." 

Jaina smiled down at her. "Is this unconventional enough for you?"

An army of ghouls, summoned by the will of a powerful mage with an aura of icy menace was far too familiar, in fact. But Sylvanas merely said, "It will suffice. Shall we?"

Nodding, Jaina rounded on the next line of soldiers already being set upon by the undead. 

Within the next few hours, they had managed to push the Ashvane army back, capturing the town and sending red-coated soldiers fleeing north east for Fallhaven. Barrowknoll was a ruin of its former self. Some of the buildings burned, their thatched roofs caved inwards in a shower of sparks and ash. Drust infantry had begun rounding up prisoners. Whenever the Forsaken drew too close, the Ashvane soldiers would panic and draw their blades or raise their pistols or otherwise cower or try to run away, thinking that all of the Undead were ghouls like those Jaina had summoned from the bog. The ghouls themselves were slowly trudging back south. Some crawled their torsos across the ground. Others had been chopped to pieces, and the twitching life animating them was beginning to ease. 

Sylvanas' quiver had long since run out of arrows, and she had been forced to steal a sword from the body of a dead Ashvane soldier. Its blade was caked with dried blood. She herself was still covered in mud and gore. While she may not have sweat any longer, she was still looking forward to the day being over so she could have a bath. 

Jaina was issuing commands to a group of Drust soldiers and assorted druids, who nodded and rushed off to do her bidding. She still had not donned the skull mask since it had been knocked from her head during the fight. She looked haggard from holding onto the spell for so long, though she hid the raw weariness in her bones. Strands of hair had come loose from her braid and now stuck to the side of her neck and cheek. She swept them aside irritably as she approached Sylvanas, but that only sent a swipe of coagulated blood across her jaw from her bloodied hands. Her eyes still blazed with pale fire, though it was fading as the spell began to slowly wane. 

Sylvanas tossed aside the sword she had stolen. "Any news from the Waycrest line?"

"In retreat," Jaina answered wearily. "It was a stalemate. Thanks to our push here, the Ashvanes are all pulling back." 

Inclining her head, Sylvanas said, "Congratulations are in order, then."

"Are they?" Jaina asked. She looked around at the destruction of Barrowknoll. The wounded were being grouped up and triaged. Makeshift bandages were tied around limbs and faces. The worst of the lot were being carried away on stretchers back towards the healers tents, where more Druids would see to their injuries in due course. "I don't feel very victorious at the moment."

"Give it time." 

"My Queen," said a familiar voice behind her. 

Sylvanas turned to find Nathanos striding towards her. He wove his way through a group of prisoners, most of whom shied away from his presence. His twin axes were sheathed at his belt, and his own quiver of arrows was as empty as her own. 

He bowed and stopped before her. "Forgive me, but I didn’t recognise you beneath all the mud. Otherwise, I would have come sooner.”

“What is it?” Sylvanas sighed.

“Lady Waycrest and the Lord Admiral have crossed the river. They will be here momentarily."

"Very well." Sylvanas turned back towards Jaina then paused. 

Jaina had gone white as a sheet. She reached up to touch her own face as if only just now realising that she no longer wore the mask. Her fingers trembled. 

_"Shit,"_ Jaina hissed, frantically looking around her.

"This way," Sylvanas said, and began to walk towards the position they had been in where Jaina had lost it.

Jaina was hot on her heels. She kept her head ducked, as though afraid her mother would round every corner and come face to face with her. When they came upon the site however, the mask was nowhere to be seen. With a frown, Sylvanas swept her gaze over the area. She eventually found it behind some wooden rubble that had fallen loose from the barricades during the fight. 

Picking it up off the ground, Sylvanas brushed it free of as much mud as she could. However, Jaina was already reaching out for it. The flames of her eyes had dwindled nearly to normal by this point, and her expression was agitated. Their hands brushed as Sylvanas handed it to her. Jaina shot her one last grateful glance before pulling the mask over her head and covering her face once more. 

The sound of horse hooves and the jangle of tack announced the arrival of what remained of the Waycrest cavalry accompanying Katherine and Lucille. The two of them rode up looking unscathed. Behind them Captain Hayles sported a sabre cut on his upper arm. He handled his reins with his good hand. Jaina checked her mask for a second time as if to reassure herself that it was actually there before turning to face them. 

Katherine pulled back on the reins. “Glad to see you’re both still alive,” she said by way of greeting, then glanced apologetically at Sylvanas. “Mostly.” 

"How many dead?" Lucille asked.

Sylvanas looked to Nathanos for an answer, and he said, "About four hundred casualties."

"Which brings the total to seven hundred and fifty," Katherine said. "Not bad, all things considered. It could have been much worse." 

"Better than the Ashvanes," Jaina replied. She sounded far more calm than she had looked just moments ago. 

Katherine grinned down at her. "Oh, yes. They'll be feeling the sting of this for a while. We ought to consider our next move before they have too much time to regroup." 

With a nod, Sylvanas said, "We'll meet you back at camp this evening to discuss it. For now, let us tend to the wounded and prisoners. If we're lucky, we captured someone worth ransoming." 

"That would be nice," Lucille sighed wistfully.

"Until later, then." Inclining her head, Katherine wheeled her white Kul Tiran charger about and headed back across the river towards camp. Lucille and the rest of the Waycrest cavalry followed. 

The moment her mother was out of sight, Jaina's shoulders relaxed slightly. Sylvanas could have sworn she heard her breathe a sigh of relief behind that skull mask. 

"Nathanos," Sylvanas said. "Find Anya and get everything cleaned up."

"And where are you going?" he asked.

She had already turned and begun striding off towards the bog. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, "To retrieve something of mine. I'll not be long." 

He did not trail after her. She could hear him begin exchanging words with Jaina, but Sylvanas did not linger to hear what they were discussing. 

Most of the ghouls had made it back into the bog, clambering to their final resting place. A few were still struggling to crawl the last stretch of distance. Sylvanas might have felt more pity for them had they any sort of sentience left. As it was, she strode through their ranks unaffected. They paid her no heed. They hungered only for the flesh of the living. To them, she might as well have not existed. 

Seeing them at all brought back unpleasant memories of her days shackled to the Scourge. If the spell binding them had been indefinite, she might have had strong words with Jaina. As it was, Sylvanas pursed her lips and continued striding through the bog. And all the while, that unpleasant feeling remained, as if something was wrong that she just had not yet discovered, as though all these carefully laid plans were about to be unraveled by one loose thread. 

She found the wicker man still smouldering. The heart pinned to its chest was black and shrivelled and flaking away into hard clumps of ash. When she reached down and pulled her blade free, the wicker man seemed to give a little wail, though that may have been the wind rustling through the bog. She wiped the silver blade clean on a ragged corner of her cloak -- it would need a proper cleaning later -- and sheathed it in her boot. 

Turning to head back towards the camp to the east, Sylvanas paused with a frown. Not far off across the bog, a Forsaken soldier was waving at her with a cheerful dessicated hand. Their face was obscured by a helmet. They approached her with a bounce in their step, clattering like bones in a tin can. It took them a while to reach her across the mud. 

"Can I help you?" Sylvanas asked in Gutterspeak.

A familiar voice reverberated from inside the helm. "Woah. I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded awesome. Can you say it again?"

Face screwing up in bewilderment, she said, "Arthur?"

Arthur flipped up the visor of his helm, revealing his rotting face. "Hullo!"

Sylvanas stared at him. The skin of his lower jaw looked like it had been peeled away from the bone by claws. He appeared partially mummified, as though the moisture had begun to leech from his body when he had died, leaving him brittle and brownish, like the last leaf clinging bravely to a tree in autumn. 

Finally she said in a flat tone, "You're Undead."

He smiled a ghastly smile. "Yeah! Of course! I thought you knew that?"

"I did not." Sylvanas pursed her lips. "How long have you been like this?"

He shrugged. "Since Thros. So, you know, a few years. Four, maybe? I can’t remember very well, to be honest."

"Ah." Realisation dawned on her then. "Gorak Tul raised you."

But Arthur shook his head. "Oh! No, no! Jaina did!"

Sylvanas tensed. Her eyes widened. "She -- _what?"_

_"Arthur."_

Their heads snapped round at the sound of Jaina's sharp voice. She stood alone near the edge of the river. Her skull mask was tucked beneath one arm, and her face was pale. She jerked her free hand in a gesture for Arthur to approach her. He trotted over to her without question, clanking and squelching through the mud all the way.

"Go help Tavery and the others tend the wounded," Jaina ordered. 

Arthur blinked in surprise at her brusque tone. His smile slipped. "Okay," he said uncertainly.

As he turned to leave however, Jaina stopped him. She cupped his withered face with one hand, and her expression softened. With a sad smile, she gently patted his desiccated cheek. "Off with you, now. Don't cause too much trouble."

And with a parting grin, Arthur transformed into a raven and took wing back towards the town. Jaina watched him leave, waiting until he was well and truly gone before turning to face Sylvanas.

"What," Sylvanas said in a voice that was far too calm. "is going on?"

Jaina did not answer. She walked over, cradling the skull mask as though it were a shield between them. 

Mindless ghouls were one thing. But this was something else entirely.

Lifting her hand, Sylvanas pointed towards the direction where Arthur had flown. "You raised him from the grave?"

Jaina's jaw was squared bullishly, but her eyes were guilty. She stopped only a pace away. "Yes,” she said.

"Why?" Sylvanas hissed.

“It’s not what you think,” Jaina insisted.

 _“Why?”_ Sylvanas repeated, taking a step forward and glowering up at her.

"Because," Jaina said, but stopped to draw a deep breath. "Because I'm the reason he died. And I would have hated myself for not trying."

With a wave around at the bog, at the mindless dead still settling themselves back into their watery graves, Sylvanas asked, “Did you even give him the choice?”

Jaina opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. She shut it with a click of teeth.

Sylvanas could feel her own lip curl in disgust. “Of course, you didn’t.”

“He -!” Jaina started to say, and paused to collect herself before continuing. “He didn’t deserve that end. He deserved a chance to -” 

Sylvanas did not give her the opportunity to finish. She bared her teeth, eyes blazing. “Don’t lie to yourself. You did it because you are selfish.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaina spat. 

At that, Sylvanas laughed and it was an ugly sound. 

Jaina’s expression was stricken. She held her mask so tightly her fingers trembled. “Stop it,” she said, her voice growing louder as Sylvanas continued to laugh. “Stop! You weren’t there! You don’t know what happened!”

Sylvanas stopped laughing, but her lips were still pulled into a savage smile. “I can guess well enough. It doesn’t take a leap of genius to see that your irreparable hero complex and that boy’s fate are linked.”

“That’s not -! It wasn’t -! I did it because it wasn’t fair!”

“What? Dying? Nothing is more fair than death,” Sylvanas sneered, and she parroted back the words Jaina had used against her during their first encounter. “Everybody dies. I didn’t think I would need to lecture a druid on that topic.”

Jaina flung her skull mask onto the ground. “It’s not fair that I got to come back, but he didn’t!”

Sylvanas’ head jerked back as though she had been physically struck. _“What?”_

“I told you. Back when you first came to Gol Inath. You said everyone thought that I had been killed during the Drust incursion. Well,” Jaina gestured to herself. “I was. I died.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes. I did.”

“No,” Sylvanas growled. _“You didn’t.”_

“Sylvanas -”

“If you had died, you wouldn’t be -” she pointed to Jaina, “- like this.”

Jaina gave a helpless little shrug. With only the two of them there, the bog was eerily quiet. Sounds of the military in the nearby town seemed muted across the stretch of water and mud. Or perhaps it was something else about this place that made it feel liminal, like visiting a tomb. 

“All Druidism is about balance. The cycle of things. The Drust understand that better than anyone. Ulfar brought me back. A life for a life. I thought I could do the same with Arthur, but I was -” she swallowed past an obstruction, and then choked out a bitter laugh, “- a rare exception to the rule.” 

Those words had been spoken before. Sylvanas could remember them clearly, when Jaina had jokingly said she couldn’t recommend a ‘cure’ for Undeath. Eyes narrowing, Sylvanas asked, “How?”

Jaina would not meet her gaze. She wrung her hands together and worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Gorak Tul dragged Arthur into Thros as bait. I knew it was a trap, but I was so confident I could -” Jaina had to stop to clear her throat. “I followed them. And when I got there, I fought Gorak Tul. I thought I could win. He blinded me, stabbed me, drowned me, and then hung me from a tree.”

With trembling fingers, Jaina tugged at the front of her robes. She slowly pulled the layers of fabric down just enough to reveal the scars. They were looped around her neck, and gouged into her chest just beneath her left collarbone. Ragged mortal wounds that had been healed over with livid pink scar tissue. Sylvanas could see the pulse leap at her throat, bold and bright and very much alive. 

Jaina pulled her robes back into place. “We call it the Threefold Death. Among the Drust, it’s reserved for heroes, gods, and kings. It was given to me as a mockery. A reminder of my pride. Punishment for being foolish enough to think I was the hero foretold to bring about Gorak Tul’s downfall.” Her hand lingered at her throat. She stroked her fingers over the scarring left by whatever rope had strung her up in the air. “I don’t know how long I hung there until Ulfar found me. I remember being cut down, but the rest is...hazy.” 

Sylvanas shook her head. “If you remember it, then you weren’t dead.”

“Thros is not like here. Life and death are intertwined there. But trust me. I was very dead.” She lowered her hand, clenching it into a fist at her side. “Prophecies tend to find a way to have some sort of self-fulfilling irony. And by killing me that way as a show of his contempt, Gorak Tul devised his own ruin. He made me that hero destined to defy death and be his downfall. And so, I was. I came back, and I was proclaimed High Thornspeaker for my deeds. Though I did not deserve it.” 

It was like the last piece in a puzzle clicking into place, completing a picture. Katherine receiving news of her daughter's death. Lucille murmuring unsettling words about how different Jaina seemed after she emerged from the Crimson Forest. The ripped out pages of an old book on thrice-killed heroes and horned god-kings. 

“All I hear is a tale of arrogance,” Sylvanas snapped. “You tell yourself the Drust understand ‘balance’ as if that means anything. You’re no better than a Lich.”

Jaina drew herself up to her full height and her expression grew stony, guarded. “I may have fallen to my pride once before, but I will not make that mistake again. I accepted your help, didn't I?"

“So, that’s why you changed your mind about this war? Because you think I’m like _Arthur?”_ Sylvanas bared her fangs. “I am not some helpless young pup in need of a saviour.”

“I know that. And that’s not what I meant.” 

“Isn’t it? Look around. You have clearly learned nothing.” Sylvanas flung a hand up in disgust and angled herself away so that she looked across the fields towards the camp miles eastward. “You should have left the dead well alone.”

“I had to do something.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Sylvanas was giving every indication that she would not be swayed by any argument. Her ears were slanted back. Her arms were crossed. Her glower could strip the paint from the hull of a ship. 

And yet, Jaina ignored all those signs. She stepped around so that she stood before Sylvanas, and she said, “Didn’t you tell me you wished you were still alive?”

Shooting her an ugly look, Sylvanas growled, “That’s different. I wasn’t given a choice. If I had been given it, I would never would have chosen to be raised in the first place.” 

“But what about now?”

Sylvanas’ brows drew down sharply. She faltered for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying: What if I gave you the choice now?”

It was then that she realised exactly what Jaina was offering. Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. As if sensing this hesitation like a hound scenting blood in the air, Jaina drew closer.

“You already told me you died three times. But you never did tell me exactly _how_ you died.” Jaina began to circle around her, as though eyeing up a prime cut of meat at the market. “Were you wounded? Drowned? Poisoned, perhaps? Did you fall from a great height? Was your death inevitable, as if foretold? A cruel irony of fate?”

Sylvanas sucked in a sharp breath; it was a gut reaction, something she could not stop herself from doing. She remembered the long drop from Icecrown Citadel with savage clarity. Her lungs were still clogged with golden blossoms, the broad scar on her abdomen evidence of Frostmourne’s cold edge. And they never had retrieved the bullet lodged in her chest by Lord Godfrey; the iron pellet was rusting away somewhere between her vertebrae like a poisoned pellet. 

When she was standing behind her, Jaina leaned forward to murmur in Sylvanas’ ear. “If I’m right, you might also be a rare exception to the rule.”

Sylvanas jerked her head away. She whirled about, taking a step back to put distance between them. Her eyes seared crimson. “Now, who is the liar?” she spat.

“I’m not lying.” 

Ice plunged deep into Sylvanas’ chest. It felt like an all too familiar blade. Worse. It felt like hope. Her lips pulled back in a wordless snarl. Suddenly, Sylvanas wished she had arrows left in her quiver. The urge to nock her bow was strong enough that her hand nearly reached over her shoulder for it. 

Jaina eyed her warily. “You would attack me and ruin this alliance you’ve fought so hard for?”

“I am seriously considering it.”

Jaina’s face screwed up in confusion. “I don’t understand. I’m offering you the choice that was never given to you. You should be pleased.”

“I don’t want to hear any more of this lunacy right now.” Sylvanas turned and began to stalk off through the bog in the direction of Barrowknoll. 

“Sylvanas, wait -” 

She felt the warmth of a hand brush against her arm. Immediately Sylvanas wrenched her arm away. In a single fluid motion, she drew her knife and whirled around. She had the blade pressed up against Jaina’s throat before Jaina could even blink. 

“Don’t touch me,” Sylvanas hissed. “Not unless you want to die a fourth time.”

The edge of the blade whispered against the ragged edge of scar tissue. Sylvanas’ hand was white-knuckled around the hilt, her fist closed so tightly that veins of black magic bled into the silver handle, coiling at Jaina’s throat. Jaina gazed steadily down at her. There wasn’t the faintest flicker of fear in her eyes. “At least consider my offer. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Slowly Sylvanas pulled the knife away; they stood close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of Jaina’s chest against her own. She stepped back. “I won’t.”

Without another word, she left. And this time, Jaina did not try to stop her or even follow. 

* * *

* * *

**NOTES:**

-for those of you who like maps, here’s one I prepared earlier: 

-and for you Nine Years’ War aficionados, you’ll recognise the Battle of Barrowknoll as the Battle of the Boyne 2 (this time with more zombies)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got about 10k words into this chapter before I realised I needed to split it up, otherwise it would be stupidly long. Plus I was going mad trying to scroll through my monstrously large gdoc last chapter and I didn't want to do that again. So, here you go. An early present.

This time, Sylvanas did not ask. 

“I am taking your cavalry,” she told Lucille.

For the last few days since the battle of Barrowknoll, Lucille had turned into Sylvanas’ primary point of contact among their new allies. She acted as an envoy between Sylvanas and Jaina, when the two of them would refuse to speak with one another. She had been puzzled by the abrupt change, but had not complained. 

Now, Lucille blinked at her, opened her mouth to dispute this, then thought better of it when she saw the look on Sylvanas’ face. Raising her hands as though in surrender, Lucille said, “They are yours.”

Sylvanas found Hayles and the others enjoying a spot of Drustvar tea, which she had come to learn was normal tea with a healthy dose of whiskey tipped in for good measure. It was the third day since the battle of Barrowknoll, and their little army was still fortifying the town after wrenching it from the hands of the Ashvanes. Anya was there, playing dice with the cavalrymen, who had grown leery of her around cards and now insisted she use their dice. Somehow she still won nearly every round, and a few of them groaned about the luck of the dead as they handed over coins. 

When Sylvanas approached, Hayles glanced up from where he sat on a pile of bricks being used to repair the church. After their victory, he had warmed up somewhat to the Horde forces, but he was still wary of their leader. Still, he lifted his mug to her. “A good morrow, Warchief. Can I help you?”

“Gather up a scouting party, Captain. No more than thirty,” Sylvanas ordered coldly. “We are riding north.”

Hayles drained his mug then slammed it onto the ground. He wiped excess tea from his beard with the back of his hand as he stood. “Been waiting for clear orders from the Lady Waycrest. What’s the plan, then?”

“The plan is we are going scouting,” said Sylvanas.

“Aye, but we was hoping for a bigger picture. Are we wintering here?”

A number of his men were openly eavesdropping on the conversation now. Even Anya had stopped rattling around a set of dice in favour of listening. Sylvanas swept her gaze over them, then said brusquely, “Get on your horses.” 

With a shrug, Hayles pulled his gloves from where they were tucked into his belt and began tugging them over his hands. He looked over his shoulder at his men, who had not yet moved. “You heard the Lady!” he barked. “Get off your arses, you fussocks!”

Immediately, they began shuffling about, shrugging on their cuirasses over their buff coats, buckling their helms over their heads, and clasping their pistol belts around their shoulders. Hayles’ cuirass had a touch more tooling than the others and a broad white sash worn over it to denote his rank, but otherwise he appeared very plain. Anya herself had continued to favour the dark-washed cavalry buff coat she had won earlier that week, wearing it over her usual Ranger leathers, so she could still pull her hood up. Even from a short distance, she would have blended in with the rest of them without trouble. She rode at Sylvanas’ side, when the others preferred to stay a length or two behind the Queen of the Forsaken. 

“Are we looking for something in particular?” Anya asked. Somewhere along the way, she had acquired herself a living horse, one of the deep-chested smoky chargers bred in the area. 

“The enemy,” said Sylvanas, her tone curt. She did not offer any more explanation. 

Sylvanas' skeletal horse was out of place among the flesh and blood beasts of burden ridden by the cavalry. That and her armour meant she stuck out like a sore thumb, but she was long past caring. The Ashvanes by now knew who they were up against. Or if they didn't, they were fools. 

Scarcely an hour later, and they were riding north along the road to Fallhaven. They would not hope to reach it today -- not when it was another three days trek from Barrowknoll -- but there was plenty of evidence of the Ashvanes' retreat. Not even the downpour over the last few days could hide it. She would have joined the scouting expeditions sooner, if not for the rain. Until finally she could not stand staying still another second, and taken Lucille's cavalry for her own. 

They stopped every now and then to read the landscape. Hayles at one point disputed Sylvanas' tracking, claiming that the Ashvanes had clearly gone west. In response, Sylvanas had glowered at him until he sighed and fell back in line. She was not about to discount a few centuries of experience tracking game and leading armies in favour of a man who, in her culture, would barely be considered old enough to wipe his own backside. They headed east at a fork in the road towards Carver's Harbour, until midday when Sylvanas pulled back on her reins. 

She frowned down at the tracks in the ground. "They doubled back south," she murmured, pointing. 

Hayles grunted in agreement. "Not all of them, though. Just a lightly armoured company, if that." 

"On horseback, no less." Sylvanas tugged at the reins so that her skeletal horse veered off in that direction. 

Hayles followed, kicking his horse forward to trot after hers. "If we're unlucky, we'll get caught on both sides." 

Sylvanas ignored him. She urged her horse to a canter, loping ahead of the rest so that she reached the treeline first. Behind her, she could hear Hayles cursing and the sound of him drawing his weapon. The cock of a pistol clicked, echoed by dozens of others as his cavalrymen followed suit. She did not bother drawing her own bow slung at her saddle beside the matching quiver. 

Her eyes scanned the woods. They were a far cry from the dense and foggy Crimson Forest, though they were nothing at all like the woods of her homeland either. The trees here wended across the gentle slope, their trunks moss-covered and sporting growths of white fungi. She guided her horse briskly through the trees. Her ears twitched at the faintest sound -- the rustle of tack, the snort of horses behind her, the creak of branches in a stiff breeze, the chattering of birdsong, the purl of a stream narrow enough to step over. And finally the faint strains of human voices. 

Lifting her fist into the air, Sylvanas pulled back sharply on the reins. Without turning, she made a gesture and then dismounted. Anya was by her side in an instant, arrow already nocked in her bow, eyes bright and alert. 

“Four hundred paces dead south,” Anya whispered in Common for Hayles’ benefit, as he crept up beside them on foot. 

Sylvanas turned to Hayles, keeping her own voice low. “Do you know the area?”

He nodded. “Aye. There’s a small ridge by a stream just up ahead. Barely a feature, but it’s something.”

All it took was a meaningful glance from Sylvanas, and Anya vanished through the trees like a wisp of smoke. Hayles blinked at her sudden absence, trying to get a good look after where she had gone.

“Wait here,” Sylvanas told him. “Keep the horses quiet. When I give the signal, you will approach with me on foot.”

“Begging your pardon, Warchief, but that kind of defeats the purpose of bringing cavalry in the first place,” he said. “We’re not dragoons.” 

“Which is why they chose to hide in the woods rather than risk skirmishing out in the open. Now, hold your tongue.” 

He huffed, but said nothing further. His troops dismounted and tied up their horses. They drew their sabres and stuffed extra pistols into the broad sashes tied around their breastplates. Rain drizzled from the pointed brims of their lobster-tailed helmets. On horseback, they were confident and easy-going, but on foot they appeared uncertain and ungainly. They would occasionally exchange puzzled looks and shift their grips upon their swords while they waited. 

The smell of smoke drifted through the air, though Sylvanas could not make out a fire through the thicket. The Ashvane scouts had obviously set up a small temporary camp further from their main body to feed back information. The lack of movement on the part of the Waycrest and Drust forces over the last few days would have puzzled them. 

Anya returned on utterly silent feet. She ghosted through the underbrush like a shadow, stopping when she reached their position. Her hands started relaying the information she had gathered using Ranger signs, until she realised Hayles and the others wouldn’t understand anything. Picking up a stick, she drew formations on the ground and held up five fingers, then four and five more. 

Sylvanas nodded in understanding. She pointed at Anya then at a few of the cavalrymen behind them. Anya inclined her head, then motioned for a group of five cavalrymen to follow her. When one of them stepped on a fallen log, his foot snapped through the wet and rotten wood with a noise loud enough to make the birds go quiet. 

Sylvanas closed her eyes as though praying, and grit her teeth. When she opened her eyes again, the cavalryman in question was being glared at by everyone in the platoon. One of his squad mates smacked him upside the head, so that his helm tilted down over his eyes. 

“You fucking moron,” someone hissed. 

Hayles shushed them, and they fell quiet again. The man carefully pulled his foot from the log, and the little group went off, following after Anya. Sylvanas gave them a head start, counting in her head until she was satisfied. Then, she gestured to Hayles and without looking back, she crept forward on silent feet. 

Her trained ears could hear the rustle of their own approach. The cavalrymen creeping along in her wake were accustomed to scouting by roaming broad countryside and hills atop their horses in easy formations. They were not used to this. Just ahead of them, Sylvanas prowled forward until she could see the peaked rise of tents over the underbrush, until she could hear individual conversation, the crackle of campfires, and the stamp of horses’ hooves. The horses were tethered on one side of the camp, their noses stuck in their feed bags. A few of them merely flicked their fuzzy ears upon seeing the approach of the Waycrest cavalry, but raised no alarm. 

Sylvanas raised her hand in a fist again and stopped. The men behind her hid behind the trunks of trees and in the thick underbrush, lying low on their bellies and squinting beneath the rims of their helms at what awaited them ahead. Peering carefully around the trunk of a tree, Sylvanas quickly counted men. Forty-five in the camp, according to Anya, who had counted rightly. Five more on the ridge. That was nearly fifteen more than they had brought themselves. Another glance around the tree trunk, and she spied Anya and the small group of cavalrymen in position at the ridge, waiting. 

Sylvanas caught Anya’s eye. They exchanged a brief nod, and then Anya struck. Quick as a bolt, she had a knife pressed against the throat of one of the sentries. The group of men with Anya burst forward as well, pistols raised, sabres at the ready. 

Straightening, Sylvanas stepped out from her hiding spot. “Gentlemen,” she said, lifting her voice, “how good it is to see you again.” 

A cry of alarm went up, and the men in the camp leapt to their feet. They tugged their weapons free, but their helms and cuirasses were still packed away. Their Captain drew his pistol and sabre, levelling the gun at Sylvanas. It was the same young Captain Ashvane that she had seen during her reconnoitre before the battle of Barrowknoll. His eyes were dark and sombre as he took in the situation -- the men with Sylvanas, the soldiers on the ridge with his sentries at knifepoint. Anya tightened her grip in the hair of the man she held steady when he tried to struggle, drawing a line of red at his exposed throat. 

Sylvanas spread her hands open to show she held no weapon, though Hayles stepped up to stand beside her, his expression grim beneath his heavy beard. “There needn’t be violence,” she said. “Cry ‘quarter’, and I will ensure you are well looked after.” 

Captain Ashvane grinned at her over the top of his flintlock. “Shame,” he said, cocking the weapon with his thumb. “I rather like a bit of violence with my afternoon tea. And you’ve come just in time, too.” 

“We have you surrounded, boy,” said Hayles, aiming down the sights of his pistol. “Best give up and come quiet now, yeah?”

Captain Ashvane swung his arm around so that his own pistol was now pointing at Hayles. “Not a chance, old man.” 

Hayles opened his mouth to speak, but the blast of a pistol snapped through the air. Captain Ashvane’s arm recoiled, the tip of his gun emitting a gout of smoke, and Hayles staggered back, grasping his shoulder. 

All hell broke loose. The Waycrest troops opened fire, and the air was filled with the crack of gunshot and shouts. Red-coated Ashvane scouts returned volleys, only for the two sides to toss aside their one-shot pistols and fall upon one another in a clash of swords. Hayles swore and fired his pistol at Captain Ashvane, but missed. The shot went wide, hitting a tree and scattering bark on the ground. On the ridge above, Anya had drawn her blade across the throat of the soldier she had been holding at knife point. His body was slumping to the ground as he gurgled and grasped at the tide of red spurting from his neck. She was already pulling back the string of her bow and firing arrows down into the camp. 

Captain Ashvane shoved his first pistol into the wide sash at his belt, and pulled out another. He aimed it at Hayles, whose eyes went wide. Moving quickly, Sylvanas shoved Hayles to the ground, and the shot narrowly missed. The Captain drew his sword and advanced upon her, arm raised, slashing down. She danced easily out of reach, moving away from Hayles so that the Captain would follow her instead. Foolishly, he did. He swung his sword in broad strokes, and Sylvanas avoided every blow with a calm assurance that only seemed to anger him. His face grew red. He pulled his lips back from his teeth in a silent snarl. 

When one of the other Ashvane soldiers tried to attack her as well, an arrow sprouted from his back. Sylvanas did not need to even look to know that Anya had shot it. Hayles switched his sword to his good hand, and was fighting a group of Ashvanes with his own men, rallying them together for something more elevated than a mere brawl. 

The Captain did not do the same. He was content to let his superior numbers do the talking for him, leaving him free to pursue Sylvanas, who continued to elude his slashes. He was no slouch with the blade. She could tell by the familiarity with which he handled his sword. A young nobleman trained in gentlemanly pursuits used to getting his way. When he drew too close, she grabbed his wrist and tightened her grip until she could hear the crunch of bone and tendons beneath her hand. 

The Captain cried out. He tried to kick her away, but she stepped aside so that his foot hit nothing. She did not let him go. Instead she twisted his arm expertly so that he was forced to drop the weapon or risk breaking his arm as she jammed his hand into the small of his own back. He was a tall man, and strongly built. But standing behind him, she planted her foot behind his knees so that he was forced onto the ground. 

“Call them off,” Sylvanas murmured into his ear, while he jerked futilely in her grasp. “Or I will make sure you never swing a sword in your life again.” 

He continued to struggle, grunting in pain when she pushed his arm a little further up. He grappled for purchase at her leg, but could do nothing to dislodge her. She leaned in closer to speak again, when she saw a flash of silver. With his free hand, he had pulled the knife from her boot and struck blindly at her over his shoulder. 

Reeling back, Sylvanas clutched at her face. She hissed, feeling the cut at her cheek, which bled black and sluggish. Captain Ashvane was scrambling to his feet. He rounded upon her, brandishing the hunting knife given to her by her mother when she had come of age. The same knife that had been used in the ritual to summon undead ghouls from the sacred Ardfert bogs not four days past. She could feel the anger boil in her lungs, frothing white-hot and wild, welling up in her throat until she was nigh drowning in it.

Captain Ashvane’s expression changed as he watched her. Smug certainty gave way to confusion and then to fear. He took a step back, holding the knife before him like an animal backed into a corner. Some of his men did not notice. All they saw was their commander continuing to fight and break free of the enemy. Several of them moved into position around her, swords raised, while Anya continued to fire into the fray. 

Shadows coiled at Sylvanas' feet, slowly gathering around her. Rage was a living thing in the crucible of her lungs, burning like liquid fire, clawing at the backs of her teeth. With a wordless snarl, her form flickered. In a blaze of black necrotic smoke, Sylvanas swept over the Ashvane men advancing upon her, over half a dozen including the Captain. The coils of shadow billowed outward, curling around them and swallowing them whole, until the air was filled with the sound of a shriek that tore itself from her mouth, drowning out all else. The note shivered high over the treetops, sending a startled flock of birds to flight. Everyone in the camp -- friend and foe alike -- clutching at their ears. Some fell to their knees. Others cried out in agony, blood dribbling from their noses, dripping from their open mouths, choking them until they could not make a noise. 

When the boiling black fog faded, Sylvanas stood in the centre of a group of dead Ashvanes crumpled along the ground. Their bodies were contorted into foetal positions, their skin grey and clinging to their bones as though the very essence of life had been drained from them. Sylvanas' shoulders and the tips of her fingers twitched. Her face was an uncanny mask, her eyes burning like red coals through the gloom. 

Those left untouched staggered weakly to their feet. The camp had gone eerily quiet, the absence of noise in the wake of the banshee scream almost as loud as the wail itself. They were all staring. Hayles' eyes were wide and uncertain, taking in the scene before him. His beard was wet and dark with blood. Even Anya watched warily from the ridge, waiting to see what would happen. 

Breathing out a long ragged sigh, Sylvanas straightened. It took effort to animate herself again as she usually did, as though her body had forgotten what it was like to pantomime life. When she turned her gaze upon a few of the Ashvane soldiers further away from her, they took a step backwards, gripping their weapons tightly to their chests. 

"Put those down," she said, and though her voice was soft, it still echoed with the vestiges of dark power that lingered in her chest like an unspoken threat.

Immediately they threw their weapons to the ground and raised their shaking hands. She turned her attention away from them, looking instead down at the dead body of Captain Ashvane. His fingers were still curled tightly around the hilt of her hunting knife. Reaching down, Sylvanas tugged it free. She took a moment to inspect the blade and clean it on his sash, before slipping it back into its hilt nestled away in her knee high boots. 

Hayles approached her slowly, his steps tentative, as though he were approaching a wild animal that might snap his arm clean off with one bite. "Your orders, ma'am?"

"Take them prisoner, and we'll drag them back to Barrowknoll for questioning."

"Pity about the Captain," he said, glancing down at the man's corpse. "He would've had the most information." 

Something in her expression must have changed, for Hayles went very pale and said hurriedly, "Not that it's a problem, mind. I'm sure the others'll have plenty to talk about when we bring them back to camp, ma'am."

Sylvanas tried to school her features into something resembling calm, but it was difficult when her muscles did not want to react normally. Her soul twitched in her body like a man wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes. It would take her a few hours to get used to having skin again. So, she merely nodded sharply at Hayles, then turned and began walking back in the direction of their horses. The Waycrest cavalrymen parted before her, staring as she passed. She lengthened her stride and paid them no heed.

Anya was at her side in a moment, trailing after her like a faithful shadow. She looked concerned, but said nothing. Not until they reached the horses, at least. While Sylvanas hauled herself into the saddle, Anya remained standing by the skeletal horse's side. She gazed up at her Queen, as if waiting to receive instruction.

"What is it?" Sylvanas asked. 

"Do you need me to fetch you an Apothecary, my Queen?" 

Sylvanas considered the offer for a moment before shaking her head curtly. "No."

Anya did not quibble. She just clasped her hand over her heart and bowed low. Then, she strode towards her own horse and climbed into the saddle. When she tried to urge the living horse towards Sylvanas however, it shied from the prospect, turning in a wide circle rather than get too close. Sylvanas pretended to not notice. 

By the time they returned to Barrowknoll, it was nearing the evening. On their ride back with prisoners in tow, it had begun to rain. Suddenly Anya’s fixation on an oiled buff coat did not seem so foolish. Sylvanas’ cloak was not nearly as effective as combating the elements in Kul Tiras. It was slower returning to camp than leaving it. The prisoners were not allowed to ride their horses. Rather, their hands were bound and they walked behind the Waycrest cavalry. Their horses were tethered individually to the Waycrest horses; it wouldn’t do to leave them behind. Horses were expensive. One could always find work for them in an army. 

Their return earned a few appreciative murmurs. Waycrest and Drust soldiers gathered round and asked questions of their friends in the cavalry as they rode into Barrowknoll. Jeers and hard looks were aimed at the Ashvane prisoners, but they were otherwise left alone before they were carted off for questioning. Hayles was approached by a Waycrest infantry Captain when he dismounted. Sylvanas eyed him sidelong as he clapped the man on the shoulder and began to speak with him boisterously. 

As if sensing her gaze upon him, Hayles turned. He caught her eye, and to his credit he did not look away. In fact, swept his helm over his heart and inclined his head towards her respectfully. Fearfully, even. 

Rather than reply, Sylvanas slid smoothly from her own saddle. She strode off, giving Anya a sharp gesture to imply that she wanted to be left alone. Anya did as commanded without question, returning, presumably, to the cavalry unit she preferred to haunt for company these days. 

Sylvanas headed towards her own quarters in Barrowknoll -- a repaired house near the Church, which itself was being used as the new headquarters. She quickened her step when she drew near the Church, knowing full well that certain unwanted parties often lingered within. Before she could make it past however, a voice called after her. 

“I see you’ve returned victorious from your little hunting expedition.” 

Going still, Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder. Katherine was walking towards her from the Church. Planks had been erected in a webwork of pathways across the muddy ground. The end of Katherine’s cane knocked against wood with every other step. 

With one last longing look towards her own private quarters only a few paces away, Sylvanas turned to face the Lord Admiral. She tucked her hands behind her back in an officious pose, trying to seem natural even when she knew she appeared stiff. “I did,” she said. 

Katherine stopped before her, and folded her hands over the top of her cane, leaning her weight upon it. She was undeterred by the rain. “Did we learn anything new?”

“Not yet.” 

Katherine cast a critical eye over her. “You look more dead than usual. Did something happen?”

“Your concern is touching,” Sylvanas drawled. “But unnecessary. I am fine”

“Hmm.” Katherine pursed her lips. 

“Unless there is something else you wished to discuss, I shall -” 

Before Sylvanas could finish speaking and try to slip away however, Katherine interrupted. “There was, actually. How good of you to ask. I was wondering when we might all have a strategy meeting. Since you and the High Thornspeaker seem to be conveniently busy whenever I try to get you both in the same room these days.” 

It was true. Any time Katherine or Lucille would try to convene a meeting to discuss their next steps, Sylvanas would find an excuse to be elsewhere. It was at least gratifying to know that Jaina was doing the same. Though she doubted it was to avoid her. Most likely it was to avoid her mother. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “These are busy times, Lord Admiral.” 

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, my dear. We all know what times these are.”

Sylvanas blinked. Not at the swearing -- Katherine was prone to cursing as fluently as any sailor worth their salt -- but at the endearment. Sylvanas had heard Katherine call people ‘my dear’ only when they crossed a certain unspoken threshold. For Tatanka it was with the first cup of tea. For Anya, after their first card game. For Arthur after exactly three seconds of conversation. For Sylvanas, apparently, it took nearly seven months and a victory on the battlefield. Some had more hoops to jump through than others, it seemed. 

"I want to know what the plan is," Katherine continued with a face like cold iron. 

"Since when was this my army?" Sylvanas sneered. "Last I looked, my people and I were just a resource for you to use."

Katherine scoffed. "Like you didn't want it that way. Still -" she shifted her weight so that she could tap her cane thoughtfully against the wooden planks beneath them. "I do wonder what the High Thornspeaker promised you to get you to deploy so many troops into Drustvar."

Sylvanas thought of the treaty in her personal quarters, stashed safely away, signed and sealed. Copies of it had been distributed to Jaina as well as to Durotar, so that no party could cry foul of the agreement. "That is between myself and the High Thornspeaker."

Katherine arched an eyebrow. "Not even a hint for an old woman?"

In reply, Sylvanas merely glowered. 

"You really think you can keep your arrangement a secret?" Katherine asked. "The truth will out eventually."

"Yes," Sylvanas said. "But not today." 

"I don't see why the secrecy in the first place."

It was so tempting. She could tell her so easily. Jaina's secret hung by a thread in Sylvanas' hands, ready to be severed with a single swipe of a sentence. There was little to gain by telling Katherine, but the pure spite of the deed was almost enough to sway her.

Almost. But not quite.

Finally, Sylvanas said, "I have died for secrets in the past, Lord Admiral. You’ll not suss them out of me with conversation alone.” 

There was a bullish squaring of Katherine’s jaw that followed. Sylvanas had seen it many times before on Jaina; the two shared more mannerisms than they likely knew. 

Sighing, Katherine said, “At least tell me what the plan is for the next week? What have you and the High Thornspeaker discussed?"

Sylvanas’ face darkened. In truth, she and Jaina had not exchanged a single word over the last few days. Every time Sylvanas so much as saw her, she began walking in the other direction. Thankfully Jaina never gave chase. "Ask her yourself,” Sylvanas said. 

"I tried. She refuses to talk to me.” This time when Katherine rapped her cane against the planks, it was annoyed. “I figured you would know, seeing as you're close allies, supposedly. Though I'm having second thoughts, now."

"Then ask Lady Waycrest," Sylvanas said. She turned away and continued striding towards her lodgings. 

"I wasn't aware I was marching alongside children,” Katherine called after her before she could take more than a few steps away. 

Stopping, Sylvanas glared over her shoulder. "I'm older than you."

"Physically, perhaps. But in other ways? Evidence suggests otherwise."

Taking a few steps after her, Katherine stopped and fixed Sylvanas in place with a look sharp enough to skin a hare. "If you ask me -"

"I'm not."

"If you ask me," Katherine repeated, undeterred. "This sounds like some petty row."

When Sylvanas did not answer, Katherine clucked her tongue in an admonishing sort of way and shook her head. "Dear me. Do I really need to encourage you and the High Thornspeaker to use your words? Sit down? Have an adult conversation?"

"The same way you used your words with your husband?" Sylvanas sneered. "Yes, I can see why you ended up widowed and childless."

Katherine went still. Her eyes were like chips of ice. "You mean to shock me, throw me off my tracks and derail the conversation. But I made my peace with myself years ago."

"Clearly."

"What's more interesting is that you would compare your relationship with the High Thornspeaker to mine with my late husband." Katherine sniffed delicately at the notion. "Well, if I'd known this was a lover's quarrel, then I wouldn't have intruded. What a messy business."

Sylvanas growled, "It's not. And we are not having this conversation."

"Might I suggest leaving what goes on in the bedroom out of our military affairs?"

Again, Sylvanas turned to leave. She had scarcely stomped a few steps away, when Katherine called after her, "Kindly pull your head out of your ass. Before we all die, preferably." 

When Sylvanas did not stop this time, Katherine raised her voice, "Do you really intend to let the Ashvanes take the initiative? For such a storied military leader, I honestly expected more from you."

Sylvanas froze with her hand gripping the handle of the front door. Her grasp tightened. She could feel the wrought iron handle crumple beneath her fingers like paper. Behind her, she could hear the intermittent thump of the cane against the sodden wood walkways until Katherine stopped just behind her.

"We cannot winter here," Katherine said firmly, yet softly enough that they would not be overheard. "You know it. I know it. Lucille knows it, but only because I told the poor girl. Does your High Thornspeaker know it?"

Without turning around, Sylvanas said, "She is not  _ 'my' _ High Thornspeaker."

"I don't care what or who she is," said Katherine. "What I care about is winning. If I had to play go-between for the two of you, I would. But neither of you seem very inclined to speak with me, despite my best efforts. Now, if I can condescend to try and settle this debate or quarrel or what have you, then you can eat crow and talk to that Tides-forsaken druid for five minutes. I'll settle for three minutes, even. Enough for us to agree on a plan and execute it. Have I made myself clear?"

Unclenching her fingers made the iron door handle screech slightly. Pulling her hand away, Sylvanas straightened her shoulders. She rose to her full height and turned, her movements too smooth, too mechanical. Even with a slight stoop due to her leg, Katherine still stood a few fingers taller than her, but the implacable expression on Sylvanas' face made her brow furrow. Katherine leaned back slightly, her eyes suddenly wary. 

When Sylvanas spoke, her voice was quiet; it slithered like a dark echo. “I have no intention of losing. You will have your victory, Lord Admiral. Make no mistake. But do not presume to tell me how to handle my affairs, personal or otherwise.”

Katherine scowled, but this time she did not try to stop Sylvanas as she turned to tug the door open. Walking inside, Sylvanas shut the door behind her, hearing Katherine mutter to herself, "Damn high-handed elves."

Even in the cold damp reconstructed house, there was little peace and quiet. Nathanos was bowed over a table, arranging reports and maps and ledgers in preparation for her arrival. He straightened when she faced him. 

"Anya told me what happened," he said. "She also told me that you refused an Apothecary." 

"I don't need an Apothecary. Or a mother, for that matter. So, you can drop the act," she added snidely. Crossing the sparsely furnished room, Sylvanas rounded the table and sat behind it. "What I need is the latest news from the ships sailing to our position, and the movements of the Great Fleet. If the Zandalari ships don't manage to slip Lord Stormsong's noose, those reinforcements will never arrive, and we might as well abandon this for a lost cause."

"I wish you would," Nathanos replied. “I wish I could sway you to leave.” 

She had considered it. A few times over the course of the last few days, if she were being honest with herself. Leaving Kul Tiras would have been the more sensible approach. There was no use throwing good coin after bad, as her father had been so fond of saying. And knowing when to cut one's losses was a key trait in any military leader worth their salt. Still, the idea rankled.

It was about more than thwarting the Alliance, now. This was personal. And if there was one thing Sylvanas hated, it was losing. 

Sylvanas pulled the first report Nathanos had arranged for her on the desk. Her eyes skimmed over the lines, but every now and then she would glance at him over the top of the parchment. Despite her earlier rebuke, Nathanos hovered nearby. He seemed to have no intention of leaving her alone right now. Annoyance prickled at the back of her spine, but it was tempered by a grateful flicker of feeling as well. 

She did not often use her powers. It was never pleasant -- mostly for others, but for herself also. There were no days, no minutes where she could pretend she was anything than what she had become at the hands of the Lich King, but there were certainly times that were worse than others. An Apothecary could only do so much with their potions and poultices. Her body was a mere vessel for the spirit chained within. They could but settle her corpse, urge it to be soothed for a brief respite. She generally only submitted herself to their care for the sake of others rather than herself. The Forsaken -- her Rangers included -- felt better if they believed she was properly looked after. As though the thought of her distress or loss caused them pain of their own. 

It was the threat of her absence more than anything else. What it would do to them as a people and as a society were she to no longer be there to guide them at the helm. 

The thought rose unbidden in her mind, then. Jaina's offer. Being 'cured.' The possibility of it ached. How would they see her if she lived once more? What would they do? Would she abandon them? Would she stay? Would they even want her to? 

"Is there something wrong, my Queen?"

Sylvanas lowered the report back to the desk. Others found Nathanos difficult to read, but she had never found that to be the case. His careful veil of uncaring haughtiness was the most inhuman thing about him, but his actions were his ultimate tell. He would say one thing, and then do another. Spiteful words of ridicule in one hand, and selfless acts in the other. For the longest time, even back when they had been alive, he had thought she never noticed, but she was not one to reward skill alone. One had to have the proper disposition. 

Now, he hovered, and it was anxious despite his cool tone and his perpetual lofty sneer. 

Lifting her hand to her face, Sylvanas explored the cut on her cheek with her fingertips. She could withstand blows that would kill any living person, but her body did not heal normally, not like it once did. It would take time for the necromantic powers laden upon her spirit to knit this corporeal form back together. The process was slow. The flesh was weak, but the bond between body and spirit was weaker. She could get her Val’kyr to mend her, but she did not like wasting their powers for such trivial matters. 

Finally, she said, "Bring me an Apothecary, then. If it will soothe you, Nathanos."

"It is not I who needs treatment," he said, lying to himself. Sylvanas let him. He bowed and strode out of the house. 

With a sigh, Sylvanas leaned back in her seat and waited for him to return with an Apothecary in tow. Perhaps after letting herself be fussed over for an hour or two, she could get some actual work done. 

Nathanos returned not long later with an Apothecary at his heels and -- to her surprise -- a familiar raven on his shoulder. Now that Nathanos knew about Arthur, he was tolerated rather than actively despised. Arthur had taken to ruthlessly abusing this change in status, much to Nathanos' annoyance and Sylvanas' amusement. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"He saw me getting the Apothecary, and wanted to see how this worked," Nathanos explained, shutting the door behind them. "I told him that it was not my decision to make."

With a shrug, Sylvanas rose to her feet. "He can stay, if he wants." 

_ "Yes," _ Arthur whispered triumphantly under his breath.

Since discovering what he was, she had watched his interactions with the Forsaken in a new light. Suddenly his queries about their undeath made sense. She had initially thought them to be curiosity, or him digging up information for Jaina. And perhaps there was a bit of that, to be fair. But it certainly was not the whole picture. 

The Apothecary was a mass of heavy robes. Strapped to his chest and back were darkly lacquered boxes, filled with all manner of potions and reagents. His rotting face was hidden behind a deep cowl, but his eyes gleamed golden through the dim light like candles. He limped as he walked, and even with his hunched stature he was still taller than Nathanos. When Sylvanas turned her gaze upon him, he bowed low. 

"If it would please the Dark Lady," he said in a gravelly voice. 

"It would," she murmured. 

He shuffled closer and began to disassemble the boxes upon the desk. They folded out with clever hinges, revealing a labyrinth of compartments within. While he worked, Sylvanas walked around the desk to stand before him, waiting quietly with her hands clasped behind her back. 

Candles were lit as well as incense. Soon, the room was filled with the smell of chrism and rose oil. The Apothecary took his time. He swung a thurible by its chain, walking around her and murmuring in Gutterspeak. She stood still, allowing the ritual of the process with a bored kind of familiarity. The air grew thick with smoke. When various bowls and vials and candles had been arrayed just so, the Apothecary bowed before her once again. Without needing to be told what to do, Sylvanas lifted her arms somewhat to allow him to begin disrobing her. Every piece of armour and scrap of cloth above the waist was removed and placed aside, handled with care and reverence. He even waved the thurible over her pieces of armour, muttering more incantations. 

On the other side of the room, Nathanos had turned his back for this process. Arthur on the other hand, shuffled around on Nathanos' shoulder to keep watching. That was, until Nathanos plucked one his tail feathers in admonishment.

"Ow! Hey! What was that for?"

"Keep your eyes to yourself," Nathanos growled.

"You always were an awful prude, Nathanos," said Sylvanas, watching them with some amusement. "I do not care if he watches."

There was a bit of dark grumbling at that, but Nathanos said nothing more. He maintained his own discretion, keeping his back turned, while Arthur looked on curiously. 

When her torso was fully revealed, Arthur made a whistling noise. Nathanos appeared on the brink of strangling him, but Arthur only said, "Does that still hurt?"

Sylvanas did not need to look down; she knew what he was referring to. The Val'kyr could mend many things when they reconstructed her body, but the wound made by Frostmourne was not one of them. The gash slanted across her abdomen just beneath her ribs. Along her back, the exit wound was a mirror. It had been expertly sutured back together and packed with a variety of reagents that she did not care to know more about beyond the fact that they smelled of warm myrrh and smoky incense. 

Rather than answer, Sylvanas countered, "Do your old wounds still hurt?"

"No," Arthur said.

"Well, then. There you have it." 

It was not strictly true. Sometimes, she could still feel the cold presence of that cursed blade as though it were sliding between her organs anew, splitting against her lower ribs. Those times were mercifully rare, and usually only occured when she used too much of her powers or spent too much time out of her body in nothing but spirit form. As though returning to her body reminded it of the very concept of pain. Today was not such a day. 

She lowered her arms, and the Apothecary began to unstitch the wound. He went carefully yet expertly, snipping the sutures loose and tugging them free with a pair of pliers and scissors plated in silver. Arthur craned his feathery neck to watch, trying to gain a bit more height to peek over the Apothecary kneeling at Sylvanas' feet and treating her. 

"Are there more Undead among the Drust?" Sylvanas asked. 

"There are lots of them!" Arthur said. "But not like me, no. They're mostly ghouls or restless spirits. They don't remember who they are or anything." 

The Apothecary was repacking the old injury now. His hands pressed the cavernous wound full of reagents. She did not flinch or even glance down at what he was doing. Instead she continued speaking to Arthur, "Do you have a difficult time remembering things?"

Arthur shuffled his wings. "Sometimes, yeah."

Immediately Nathanos' head twitched. Though he did not look around or speak, Sylvanas could tell he was listening very intently to the conversation now. 

"Does Jaina tell you to do things, and you seem to wake up later, not able to remember the past few days?" Sylvanas asked.

Even the Apothecary paused in his ministrations. Sylvanas glanced down at him sharply, and he returned to his task, though he too was now eavesdropping. 

Meanwhile, Arthur cocked his head in bemusement. "No?" he said, sounding confused. "I've never had anything like that happen before. The first year or so after she raised me though, I struggled with basic things. Walking and talking and stuff. I got better at it. She was very helpful."

"How?" Sylvanas tried to keep her tone light, so that Arthur would not get suspicious of this line of questioning.

"You know. She would make potions for me, and braces for my legs, and stuff. But she never could help with the wounds or anything." Arthur blinked, his eyes pale blue and filmy. A corpse's eyes. "I don't think she's very good at necromancy, to be honest. I mean, she's good at a lot of magic, but every magic user prefers some things over others. Like, I can turn into animals all day, but I'm terrible at healing people." 

Sylvanas frowned. "But if she gives you a direct order, can you disobey her?"

An incredulous caw was Arthur's answer. It sounded like a laugh. "Oh, yeah! I disobey her all the time! Why?"

The tension drained from the room. Sylvanas, Nathanos, and the Apothecary all relaxed, as though a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Sylvanas even let out a little sigh.

Bemused, Arthur looked between the three of them. "Is there something I'm missing here?"

But Sylvanas merely shook her head. "It's nothing. Nevermind." 

Arthur leaned down over Nathanos' shoulder, his tail feathers jutting up into the air for balance. "Have you ever raised anyone from the dead?" 

"I have," Sylvanas said truthfully. "Never without their permission. If you had been given the choice, would you have come back?"

For a long moment Arthur puzzled over that query. He shifted his weight back, and shuffled his tail. "I don't know," he finally said. "Maybe. It's not great, but I like it enough. And I didn't like dying. At all."

A surprised huff of laughter escaped Sylvanas then. Even Nathanos chuckled quietly. 

"No," Sylvanas mused with a faint smile, her killing blow on display. "No, I can’t say I did either." 

The rest of the procedure went forth without trouble. The Apothecary stitched her back up with a hooked needle and thread. He anointed her in oils like a god king, until she fairly gleamed. Death magic was woven heavy in the air, heavy on his fingers, as heavy as incense. By the time he worked his way to the more recent wound on her face, she already felt calmer, as though the Apothecary had sewn her soul more firmly into place. 

There was little more he could do about the cut on her cheek than stitch it together and seal it with fragrant chrism and a necrotic spell chanted from his lipless mouth, but it would help quicken the process along. 

The Apothecary helped her back into her clothes and armour, his bony fingers as deft with clasps and buttons as they were with a needle and thread. Soon she was shrugging her cloak around her shoulders, and allowing him to buckle her pauldrons into place as though he were dressing a high priest of the Light in sacred vestments of office. 

A knock came at the door. Sylvanas waved at Nathanos to answer it. When he did so, she could see a number of Forsaken soldiers clustered around outside. News of her minor scrape must have spread through the ranks like wildfire. She had to hold back a grimace. 

"Arthur," she called, gesturing for him to fly closer.

In an ungainly flap of wings, Arthur flew from Nathanos' shoulder and landed on the back of the chair behind the desk. "Yeah?"

"Change into your usual form."

After a moment's hesitation, he did so. There was a whirl of druidic magic, and he stood behind her chair looking curious but faintly uneasy by the way Sylvanas and the Apothecary were eyeing him up. When Sylvanas waved for him to approach her, Arthur rounded the table to stand before them, his pale gaze flicking between the two of them.

Tilting her head to one side, Sylvanas reached out and touched the rent flesh of his wrist. His clothes were scuffed and worn, but not in rags. They were a mark of a man who did not care for clothes, rather than a mark of neglect. His shirtsleeves had been rolled back above his elbow, revealing his hands and forearms, large portions of which had been peeled of flesh and muscle. 

"See what you can do for him," Sylvanas told the Apothecary. 

Without question, the Apothecary bowed to her, then gestured for Arthur to stand where Sylvanas had stood not moments ago. 

Arthur balked. “Oh - I don’t - I don’t know if -”

“Jaina’s speciality is not death magic. It is this man’s, however,” said Sylvanas firmly, indicating the Apothecary. “You will feel better after. I promise you.” 

Sheepish, Arthur allowed himself to be herded where the Apothecary wanted him to stand. He awkwardly held his arms out to the side, all while shooting Sylvanas a look that she could only describe as abashed.

Rolling her eyes, she turned away from him and walked towards the door. He was not so bold when it was himself being undressed in front of others. 

_ Humans,  _ she thought to herself with a wry shake of her head. 

Nathanos was shutting the door once more when she reached him. “Did you tell them they could stop their worrying?” she asked.

“I did, though doubtlessly they will remain outside until they see you.”

She made a disgruntled noise.

“I also received word from Captain Hayles,” Nathanos continued. Lowering his voice, he said, “Apparently, one of the prisoners you brought back from your little scouting expedition has decided to talk.” 

Sylvanas’ ears canted up in surprise. “That was fast,” she murmured. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder back towards Arthur and the Apothecary, she said, “Do we know the High Thornspeaker’s current whereabouts?”

Arthur was not paying any attention to them. He was too busy pestering the Apothecary with rapid fire questions, which the Apothecary answered in a dusty wheezing voice. 

“The people I have assigned to watch her informed me that she vanished from camp sometime this morning,” said Nathanos. “Nobody has been able to ascertain her position since then. She has a habit of disappearing without a trace and reappearing again. I suspect portals and other translocation magics are at work, but none of the Forsaken mages I’ve designated can crack where she goes to so often.” 

Sylvanas hummed a contemplative note under her breath. “I have an inkling.” Tugging the hood of her cloak over her head, she said, “Stay here. Keep an eye on the camp while I’m away.”

Nathanos’ brows furrowed. “And where are you going?”

_ “Belore. _ You’re as bad as the others.”

“Incorrect,” he said with an affronted sniff. “I’m worse.” 

With a snort, Sylvanas reached past him to open the door. “I am going to speak with Hayles and the prisoner. And then I’m going to do something I will probably regret.”

He stepped aside to let her pass. “Which is?”

“I’m going to find the High Thornspeaker, and have a conversation.” 

* * *

The fang was heavy in Sylvanas' hand. She weighed it in her palm, considering her next actions very carefully. Then she lifted the token by its string and said, "Take me to Jaina, please." She growled out the last word like it was a penance. 

That feeling hooked behind her gut as though latching onto her spine and pulled. In an instant blur of colour and darkness, she appeared at the entrance to Jaina's cabin. The fog had returned. A chill nipped the air. A shallow shower of snow dusted the grounds. On one side the cliffs were shrouded in white, and on the other the dark vastness of the trees seemed to vanish into the mist like the long march of time itself. As though this place were caught in a stasis, torn between the woods and the sea. 

Sylvanas tucked the fang back into her belt pouch. She stood before the front door, which had been hung with a wreath woven from blackthorn branches. The berries were dark and clustered along the wreath. Whether it was purely decorative or served some greater magical purpose, she did not know. She used studying it as an excuse to not knock on the door. Eventually, steeling herself, Sylvanas reached out a hand and rapped her knuckles against the door. 

There was no sound from within. Brows knitting together, Sylvanas leaned to one side in order to peer through one of the windows, but the glass was misted from the chill outside. It was impossible to see anything but the indistinct shape of furniture within. 

She knocked again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Rocking back on her heels, Sylvanas tongued at the back of her teeth contemplatively. She had been so sure that Jaina would be here. Or perhaps she was, and she knew it was Sylvanas outside. Perhaps they were both avoiding each other. 

She was reaching for the door handle, when she heard a voice behind her.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Jaina said. 

Sylvanas whirled around. It wasn't everyday someone could sneak up on her. The only people who could consistently pull it off were her Rangers. And, apparently, Jaina. It was so reminiscent of their first meeting, that Sylvanas narrowed her eyes warily. 

Jaina stood behind her, wrapped in a robe. A towel was slung over her shoulder. Her feet were bare. Her hair had been undone from its usual braid so that it hung, wet, over her shoulders. It was a rare occasion to see Jaina with her scars on full display, the neckline of her robes a low-draped décolletage revealing the rope burns at her neck and the hint of a sword wound over her heart. She faintly steamed in the cool air, as though she had just stepped from a pool of hot water.

Which was, Sylvanas realised, exactly what she had done.

"I have the house warded," Jaina explained. "If you try to force your way inside...well, it's not very nice. Let's just leave it at that."

Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. "Noted." 

They looked at one another for a long moment, until Jaina cleared her throat and stepped past her. "I suppose you'll want to come inside. Unless you really were hoping to rifle through my things without my being here."

"I wanted to talk," Sylvanas said. 

"Now, I'm really worried," said Jaina dryly. 

There was a rusted old lock on the door, but Jaina used no key. She did not need to unlock the door. It opened at her touch without any trouble. Sylvanas wondered if she even locked it conventionally at all.

Jaina did not wait for her guest to follow after her; she simply stepped inside and left the door open behind her. Sylvanas removed her shoes, but hesitated to leave her weapons behind. Eventually however, she balanced the bow and quiver and knife against the outer wall of the cabin, and walked inside. 

The door shut itself softly behind her as though a draught had caught the edge. Jaina was standing before the fireplace. When Sylvanas had peered inside, there had been no light emanating from within. Now, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Jaina stood with her back to the flames and toweled her hair dry. 

The skull mask glowered at Sylvanas from its customary spot hanging on the wall. This time, the scythe-like staff was leaning against it. The runes carved into them glowed stronger when she drew near. Sylvanas moved past them both, entering further into the cabin. She made no motion to make herself comfortable. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back as though awaiting an infantry inspection on parade. 

Jaina pulled the towel down, her hair a mess until she began raking her fingers through it. "You're very quiet for someone who came all this way to talk to me," she said. 

From this angle, the fire lit Jaina from behind so that she seemed gilded. The soft fabric of her robe was brighter at the edges, more saturated, so that her body beneath was but a silhouette. 

Tearing her gaze away, Sylvanas wandered over to the table strewn with books and scrolls and various maps. She dragged her fingertips along the ragged edge of a vellum map. “I’m sure you will have already heard that I took Captain Hayles and a few of his men for a reconnoitre this morning.”

“I did,” said Jaina. Her footsteps were soft as she crossed the room and joined Sylvanas, careful to keep the table between them.

“We caught a few prisoners. Fortunately for us, one of them decided to cooperate.”

That got Jaina’s attention. She draped the towel back over her shoulder, and asked, “And what did they say?”

“There is a feature just to the northeast of Fallhaven,” Sylvanas said. “They call it Watermill Hill.”

“I am familiar with it, yes.”

“The Ashvanes have orders to take it from the defenders, and use it as a fort to bombard the city.” 

Jaina fell silent. Her eyes dropped to the table, and she began digging up a more detailed map of Fallhaven and its surrounding countryside. She pulled out her ledgers, placing them atop the map and scowling down at the both of them. 

Finally she said softly yet vehemently,  _ “Shit.”  _

Sylvanas hummed in agreement. 

Sighing, Jaina sank down into a chair. She rubbed at her eyes, scratching at the scar on one side of her face. “I had hoped to gain control over the peninsula by taking Carver’s Harbour from the Ashvanes.” 

“It is far too late for that, now.” Reaching over, Sylvanas tapped at a section of the map between Fallhaven and Carver’s Harbour. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t make life difficult for them in the meantime. We just need to take the initiative.” 

Jaina nodded. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes. “So, we march for Fallhaven, and hope we can arrive in time to reinforce Watermill Hill. Otherwise we’ll have to take it back before they can blast through the eastern walls with artillery and create a practicable breach.” 

“And then we winter at Watermill, and harass their position at Carver’s Harbour until they wished they had never set foot in Drustvar.” 

“It’s a good plan,” Jaina admitted. “Though somewhat predictable, given the present company. I understand guerilla tactics are a favourite of yours.” 

Sylvanas gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. “We all cling to our little foibles. Mine happen to involve a penchant for shock and hit-and-run doctrine.” 

Jaina smiled, but it was a fleeting thing. Her face looked raw and recently scrubbed. She held Sylvanas’ gaze and said, “You smell like death.”

“Don’t I always?” Sylvanas drawled.

“No,” said Jaina. “Not like this. What happened?” 

Sylvanas tried to make her shrug nonchalant. “I got a little carried away during the scouting expedition.” 

Jaina looked at the cut on Sylvanas’ cheek and murmured, “I see.”

"To add insult to injury, your mother cornered me upon my return."

"Oh?" Jaina's tone was light, but she would suddenly not meet Sylvanas' eye. She fiddled with the ends of the towel slung over her shoulder, picking at stray threads, her actions uneasy, faintly apprehensive.

"She wants to call a meeting to discuss our strategy moving forward."

"Good thing we have one now, then," Jaina said, gesturing to the map of Fallhaven. 

Sylvanas caught Jaina's eye and said, "I don't think that was all she meant."

In reply, Jaina swallowed thickly. The apprehension was more than faint now. She gripped the end of the towel tightly in one fist until her knuckles were white. A flicker of fear and uncertainty flashed across her features. She did not say anything.

"The truth will out," Sylvanas said. "That was what she told me. And she's right. This war will end, and our agreement will come to light. You cannot hide forever."

Inhaling deeply, Jaina lowered her hands to her sides and said, "I know." She chewed at her lower lip for a moment before asking, "What happened with you?" 

Sylvanas frowned in quiet puzzlement.

"When you -- you know -" Jaina made a strange motion with one hand. "When you saw your family again after you had died? How did they react when they saw you like this?"

The map was suddenly incredibly interesting. Sylvanas traced circles around Watermill Hill and its surroundings, wishing beyond all else that they could return to topics of war and strategy and killing, things she was infinitely more comfortable discussing. Not this. 

"My younger sister, Vereesa, was the first to see me,” she finally said, her tone blank and matter-of-fact. “It was awful."

"What happened?"

"She hugged me," said Sylvanas.

Jaina laughed, until she realised very quickly that Sylvanas was not laughing at all.

If she thought too long and too hard, she could still feel Vereesa’s arms around her, crushing her with a warmth that scorched. It hurt to touch her. To be reminded of the heat of life she could never again share. To want to be the person her little sister remembered and idolised -- a yearning so strong it tore her up inside until she thought she could feel a blade piercing her ribs.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Sylvanas said before she could sink too deeply into that melancholic memory.

“Please,” Jaina said, sounding relieved, almost eager for any scrap of advice in this surreal situation.

Sylvanas glanced up at her sharply, and her eyes burned crimson. “Don’t wait too long. The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

A little huff escaped Jaina at that. “I think we’re well beyond that, now. She’s thought I’ve been dead for years. Since before she even became Lord Admiral. I’m sure she’s made her peace by now.”

“She hasn’t. She told me she had, but she is lying.” Sylvanas ran her hands along the back of a chair tucked beneath the desk, her thumbs counting the rings of polished wood grain. “Grief is reaching out in love and finding nothing, and then filling it with something, anything to make that void a little less yawning, a little more manageable. The longer you wait, the more disruptive your return will be.”

Firelight played faintly about the strands of Jaina’s hair. She engoldened in the dim glow. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment of silence. “For assuming what you wanted. It's just that back in Ardfert bog, I thought -”

Sylvanas shook her head curtly. “No. Stop.” 

“Sylvanas -” 

When Jaina tried to round the table, to draw closer, Sylvanas slipped further away. She used the table as an obstacle to keep them apart. “I am not here to accept your offer. And I never will.”

Jaina did not try to pursue her further. She stopped, her hands coming to rest on the desk between them, just lightly touching a space between a stack of worn, well-read books. “I still don’t understand,” Jaina said slowly. “But only because given the choice, I would leap at the chance.”

The cabin was warming up, the fire lapping at the hearth and filling the space with a pervasive roiling heat. Sylvanas wished nothing of warmth. Not now. It was too close to body temperature, and she could feel her own skin begin to react to the heat, to drink it in and hold it fast as though hungry for it. “It is not just about what I want. I have an obligation,” she said, and the words felt as though they were being scraped from her throat. “To more than just myself. I cannot be selfish. I will not be.” 

That was how it always had been. Self-sacrifice above all else. Living for others and not herself. Wishing she could be selfish, but knowing she could never do so; she would hate herself if she did. And she did not need any more reason to hate herself. Especially now.

“If there is one thing you are allowed to be selfish about, it is your own life,” Jaina said, her words chosen with care and precision.

But Sylvanas was already shaking her head, even as Jaina was speaking. “Not mine. And not yours. Not anymore. We are more than people. We are symbols and titles.”

A scowl crossed Jaina’s face, though not one of anger. “Do you allow yourself nothing?”

“You are new to your position. Relatively speaking,” Sylvanas added when Jaina opened her mouth to protest. “There is a balance you must find between personal wants and public needs. I found it long ago when Quel’Thalas demanded a military leader of my family. It is easy for you now. You want to save Drustvar. You want what is best for you people. But there will come a time, when you will do things that go against your better conscience not because you want to, but because you  _ must.”  _

“And you believe you must remain dead?” Jaina asked incredulously.

Sylvanas’ answer came without err or hesitation. “Yes.” 

With a sigh, Jaina shook her head. Again, she raked a hand through her hair, which by now had begun to dry somewhat. 

“Your relationship with your mother is a prime example,” Sylvanas began, watching her reaction. “You don’t want to reveal yourself to her, but you know you have to eventually.” 

Jaina chewed at her lower lip again. Her brows knit. Finally she relented with a nod. “Yes. I know.” 

“It is easier if you think of yourself as two different people.” Sylvanas lifted her hands, palms facing up as though weighing objects between them. “The future Lord Admiral, and Jaina Proudmoore.”

A bitter smile twisted Jaina’s lips. “It seems you need more hands, if we’re going to talk about your personae,” she said with a nod towards her. 

Sylvanas lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When you live as long as elves do, you might need more than two, as well.”

“I will.”

At that, Sylvanas blinked. She looked at Jaina for clarification. 

“Druids live as long as elves do. Even human ones,” Jaina said. Then she grinned, amused by Sylvanas’ confusion. “It’s a perk.” 

“And here I thought the Kul Tiran nobility would be clamouring for you to conceive an Heir the moment you became Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas drawled. 

“Oh, they probably will anyway. But they’re going to be very annoyed when they find out that I’ll outlive them by a good few centuries at least.” 

“I can hear the cries of outrage from Boralus already.” 

Jaina’s grin widened, then softened. Her fingers played with the cloth belt holding her bathrobe together. “I have to say, this certainly has been a surprise.”

Sylvanas cocked her head to one side.

In answer, Jaina gestured between the two of them. “I thought this conversation was going to be far more unpleasant.”

"I can make it unpleasant, if you would prefer."

Jaina made a face. "Please, no. I thought we were doing so well."

When Sylvanas smiled, it did not reach her eyes. Her fangs glinted in the firelight. "Make no mistake. I am still very angry." Her gaze seared crimson.

Jaina made a noise at the back of her throat, something between a hum and a grunt. "I can see that. I don't suppose there's anything I can do?"

"More concessions when you become Lord Admiral wouldn't go unappreciated."

Rolling her eyes, Jaina said, "Anything that doesn't involve me whoring out my nation?"

Sylvanas tapped at her chin, pretending to think deeply on the subject. Finally she said, "No. Nothing."

With a snort of wry amusement, Jaina said, "Well, do let me know if that changes." 

"I will keep it in mind." A keen expression crossed Sylvanas' face. "I never forget when I am owed a favour." 

"Now, that is just ominous." 

"Good. It was supposed to be." 

The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, the sky had fallen dark as night swept across the land. Glancing through a window, Jaina sighed. "I suppose I ought to make myself presentable and face the firing squad."

"I very much doubt your mother will draw a pistol on you, though I will admit that she is a difficult woman to read." 

"That's an understatement," Jaina muttered under her breath. She had begun to pick her way up the stairs, manoeuvring through the stacks of books haphazardly arranged along the steps. 

When she reached the mezzanine, she dropped the towel onto the bed and untied the belt of her robe. Sylvanas pulled the maps closer to herself to study them while she waited, but her eyes would stray up to where Jaina was getting dressed. There wasn't much to see through the pillars of the balustrade and the piles of books. Glimpses of skin and cloth here and there as Jaina pulled on a fresh set of formal robes. There was an exit scar on her back, where Gorak Tul had struck her through with a sword, right between her shoulder blade and her spine. 

A few minutes later, Jaina descended the steps, still tying the laces of fabric at her throat to hide the scars of her neck. Her cloak was draped across the back of the couch, and she shrugged it over her shoulders. The fabric rustled like the wind through dense branches. Sylvanas had long since given up the pretense of pouring over the maps, and stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Are you ready?" 

Jaina fiddled with her loose hair for a moment, as though contemplating taking the time to braid it. Eventually though she nodded. "Yes. Let's go." 

When they reached the door however, Jaina stopped. Her hand had immediately grabbed up the sickle staff, but she hesitated at the mask. Sylvanas waited patiently a step behind for Jaina to make up her mind. 

"No," Jaina said softly to herself, turning away from the mask. Before she could take another step towards the door though, she turned back to the mask. "Or...? Well...? Hmm." She grabbed the mask. "Yes." Then almost immediately she put the mask back on its hook. "What am I thinking? No."

Sylvanas sighed. "You are worse than a cat at the door."

"All right, yes." Jaina snatched up the mask, spurred into action, and pulled the door open. Once outside she placed the antlered skull over her head, and her shoulders relaxed somewhat, as though the idea of extra layer of protection was soothing. 

Sylvanas followed, closing the door behind them. She took a moment to pull on her boots and greaves. Once she had slung her bow over her shoulders, she pulled the fang from her belt pouch, but Jaina just held out her hand instead. 

"I'll take us back," she said, hand outstretched, waiting. 

Slowly, Sylvanas tucked the token away, and reached out for Jaina's hand. Jaina clasped their fingers together. Her skin was warm and calloused. Sylvanas could feel it even through the supple leather of her gloves. 

The dark sockets of the skull's eyes glowed with pinpricks of light, and Sylvanas tensed. Jaina tightened her hold, as if she were afraid Sylvanas would wrench her hand away while the spell was still taking form. And then that familiar hook-like sensation gripped at Sylvanas' stomach and gave a mighty tug. When the world righted itself again, they were standing on the second floor rafters of the church at Barrowknoll. 

The roof had been reconstructed with rough-hewn lumber. Stacks of bricks and munitions were piled up all around. The space was dimly lit from candles scattered around the main floor below them, and the sound of voices floated up the nearby set of stairs. 

"Tides help me, if you don't tell me this instant, Lucille Waycrest -!"

"I don't know anything! You must believe me, Katherine. If the Warchief or the High Thornspeaker had said something to me, they would have said it to you as well. I swear it."

"You’re hiding something. You all are. Oh, don't give me that doe-eyed look! You always were a terrible liar."

"I told you, I don’t know anything!" 

"You know I was there at your birth? Your mother held my hand. Nearly squeezed it right off, if you ask me. That woman had a death grip like no other."

"Yes," Lucille sighed wearily. "I know." 

"And when Meredith fell to the Coven? Who was the first to offer you aid?"

Lucille mumbled something under her breath.

"Speak up, my dear." 

"I said: You were."

"That's right. I was. And when those fools at Corlain attempted to burn you at the stake for some far-fetched witchcraft conspiracy, who got wind of it and rallied the Marshal for a rescue attempt?" 

"You did."

"And yet you have the nerve -- the absolute  _ gall _ \-- to look me in the face right now, and lie to me." There was the sound of boot steps, and the faint clack of a cane against wooden floorboards. When Katherine spoke again, her voice was low but not at all soft. "I had thought I could rely upon you, the last of my family, distant though you are. But I see I am cursed to live a life of disappointment, through and through." 

“That’s not fair,” Lucille sounded like she was choking on the words, or trying to hold back a wave of tears. “You know I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. 

"You have a very poor way of showing it." 

"What am I supposed to do? Perform every action of my life as though I'm grovelling at your feet just to show how thankful I am?"

"Of course, not. You're being ridiculous."

"Don't say that! Don't you say that to me! You know I can't stand that, Kath!"

"Don't you  _ 'Kath' _ me, young lady!"

As they eavesdropped, Jaina was gripping Sylvanas' hand hard enough that her fingers trembled. Sylvanas stole a quick glance at her. It was impossible to see what her expression was beneath the mask, but her back was too straight, her shoulders too rigid. 

Sylvanas squeezed her hand back, and Jaina's head jerked towards her in surprise, as though she had only just remembered that Sylvanas was present at all. But it was only to get her attention, for Sylvanas jerked her head meaningfully at the stairs, and gave Jaina a pointed look. She could hear a faint indrawn breath beneath that mask, and then Jaina let go of her hand. 

At the first creak of the floorboards beneath Jaina's feet, the two voices went silent downstairs. Sylvanas followed as Jaina descended the stairs, her own footsteps silent as a whisper. 

Lucille and Katherine were standing very close together before the large rectangular altar that had been converted into a planning table. Scrolls and scraps of notes, missives and ledgers and stacks of maps were strewn across the altar. The papers were weighed down with bits of brick and bronze lamps. Both of them appeared startled at the interruption and the idea that their conversation was being listened to. Katherine recovered more quickly, grasping the falcon head of her cane in both hands and schooling her features to their usual hard neutrality. On the other hand, Lucille’s lower lip trembled. Despite that, her gaze was sloe-eyed and unyielding. 

"Forgive the interruption," Jaina said, her voice cold beneath the horned skull. "But I thought I should step in." 

Lucille jerked her chin up and said steadily. "It's fine. We just got a bit sidetracked from a strategy discussion." 

Jaina hummed. She approached the altar, her hand reaching out to rest upon the stone surface. "Sylvanas has informed me of new developments that we all need to discuss." 

Hearing this, Katherine shot Sylvanas a look that could only be described as startled, though she tried to hide it. In return Sylvanas gave away nothing. She did not draw nearer the altar, keeping her distance, watching Jaina, waiting for what she would do. 

"I'm glad to hear you two are talking again," Katherine said carefully. Then she turned her attention upon the altar, waving Lucille and Sylvanas over to join them. "Shall we -?"

"No, not yet," Jaina said, cutting her off. Her voice was determined, but there was the barest hint of shakiness lingering beneath the surface. "You were right. There was something Lucille was keeping from you. And I think -- for all our sakes -- we ought to clear the air."

Lucille's eyes widened. She gave Jaina a panicked look. 

Jaina gave no indication that she noticed. Slowly, her hands reached up and clasped the base of the skull mask, lifting it away to reveal her face. Katherine was watching her with a bemused frown, which only deepened when Jaina set the mask atop the altar. Opening her mouth to speak, Katherine paused. She blinked. Then she went white a sheet, and her jaw slackened as the realisation visibly dawned on her. 

Katherine shook her head. “No, that’s - that’s not possible,” she breathed. “You died. They’d told me you died.”

“Yes,” Jaina said. Her hands were gripped into tight fists at her side. She held herself as though expecting to be struck.

From this angle Sylvanas could not see Jaina’s expression, but she could see Katherine's with all too much clarity. Something raw and painful shifted across Katherine’s pale face. Anger and anguish, disbelief and dread. Her hand tightened around the cane. She rapped the end of it against the ground, her jaw tight but her eyes welling up with unshed tears. “I planted a sword in the grave for you,” she rasped. “And yet here you are.” 

“Here I am,” Jaina echoed.

“If this is some trick, I swear to all that’s good, I’ll -” Katherine cut herself off with a rough swallow, breathing in heavily through her nose. 

“I’m real.” 

Katherine opened her mouth to say something, but words seemed to escape her. Hesitant, she reached out with one hand, but Jaina’s shoulders stiffened, and Katherine lowered her arm before she could touch her daughter. She had to muster up the ability to speak again. “You’ve grown very tall,” she said, a weak smile trying but failing to take shape. Her eyes flicked to Lucille and Sylvanas, and then her face hardened, her voice gaining strength. “How long have they known?”

Lucille looked like she would rather die on the spot than answer that question. Sylvanas herself kept her mouth firmly shut, letting Jaina answer. “Long enough.” 

Pain twisted Katherine’s features. “And you didn’t tell me? Why?” 

“Are you really asking me that? After what you did?” 

Katherine drew herself up to her full height, but the top of her head barely passed Jaina’s chin. “I did not want to, but I had to,” she said. “Everything I did, I did to safeguard Kul Tiras. I will not apologise for that.”

“Letting Tandred hang was all part of your plan to  _ ‘safeguard Kul Tiras’?” _ Jaina asked incredulously.

“You were too young to understand,” Katherine snapped. “The political situation at the time was volatile. I did everything I could to change Daelin’s mind, to find some work around, to exile Tandred instead, but he would have none of it. And the gentry were baying for blood after the orcs had killed so many during the First and Second Wars.” 

Jaina scoffed. “Oh, great. So, dad wasn’t just a power-mad bastard. It was all because of politics. I see now why I should have come back to Boralus the moment he died. How foolish of me!”

Katherine’s face was quickly regaining its colour again. The two of them were locked in a glaring contest, tempers rising, mingling with grief and years of bitterness. They continued speaking as though they had completely forgotten anyone else was in the room. 

“That’s not what I meant!” Katherine said hotly.

“Then what did you mean? Enlighten me.”

“You should have told me! Have you never heard of a letter?  _ ‘Dearest mum, I am alive. Love - Your daughter, Jaina.’” _

“You’re unbelievable! You -!” 

As silently as she could, Sylvanas crossed the room and murmured to Lucille, “Come. Let us leave them be.”

Lucille nodded without hesitation, and the two of them slipped away. Neither Jaina nor Katherine seemed to notice. 

“I could have protected you!’

“Oh, yes, because you’ve done such a good job of that in the past!” 

“How dare you! I am the reason why you survived at all!”

“You don’t know anything about what’s happened for me to survive! Or have you already forgotten? You threw me away!”

“I did no such thing!”

Sylvanas shut the side door to the church behind her, so that the sounds of their voices were muted. Outside, the night was dark and drizzly. Most of the soldiers were camped in the fields just to the north, but some still wandered the town performing their duties. Sylvanas kept her hand firmly on the latch of the door as though afraid it might burst open at any second, while Lucille leaned against the outer wall with a ragged exhalation, staying beneath the shelter of the eaves. 

Sylvanas studied her profile, then said, “You did well. I thought you would crack immediately under questioning.” 

A soft shaky laugh escaped Lucille at that. “Thanks,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. She glanced towards the door. “Should we wait here? How long do you think they’ll be?”

Sylvanas’ only answer was a shrug. “They will take as long as they take.” 

“Then they’ll be a while. _‘Stubborn as a Proudmoore’_ they say in Tiragarde Sound.” Lucille ran a hand across her brow. She pushed herself away from the wall and said, “Would you like to join me for a drink? I desperately need one.”

“I don’t drink. And alcohol is wasted on me. It does nothing.” 

“Right. Of course. My apologies.”

One of Sylvanas’ ears tilted towards the door, hearing the rising volume of the voices within. She grimaced. “On second thought, I will join you.” 

“Thank the Tides,” Lucille sighed, already gathering up her long hems so that they would not trail in the mud. 

Sylvanas followed Lucille out into the rain, the two of them making a dash towards a nearby reconstructed house. She may not be able to enjoy a drink, but it was a better proposition than staying put; she had had enough eavesdropping for one night.

* * *

Lucille had nearly finished what remained of the flask of whiskey she kept hidden in the drawer of her work desk, and Jaina and Katherine still had not emerged from the church to the Tides. Sylvanas sat in a chair beside the fire, while Lucille nursed a glass. Conversation was halting at first, but eventually Lucille's tongue was loosened by drink. Sylvanas took the opportunity to suss out any additional helpful information about Jaina and Katherine. Most of it she already knew. Some of it however, she did not.

"I wanted to go to Jaina's burial in Boralus, but my mother forbade it," Lucille said. She had draped a blanket over her legs to ward off the cold, and her chair had been pushed nearer the fire. 

"Why would she do that?" Sylvanas asked.

Lucille sipped at the amber spirits in her glass. "In hindsight, I think it was because she had already well fallen under the influence of Gorak Tul. But it wasn't just that. There really was bad blood between the Houses back then."

"Unlike now, where you all get along swimmingly," Sylvanas drawled.

Lucille snorted a laugh into her cup. "I didn't think you would actually have a sense of humour, you know. It's kind of nice."

"I'm a woman of hidden depths." Sylvanas waved for Lucille to continue. "Now, you were saying about the Houses?"

"Yes. Well. Katherine was right back in the church, really. Terrible business, the First and Second Wars. There aren't many people in Kul Tiras to begin with. Then an unfathomable number of the population died fighting the orcs. We are still recovering as a society. I don't know if we ever will. Not really." Lucille cradled the glass of whiskey between her hands as though praying that it would warm her. "Derek Proudmoore, Jaina's eldest brother, was one of the people to fall. Daelin and Katherine were crushed. But he wasn't the only one. Lady Ashvane's Heir died. Her husband, too. And some of Lord Stormsong's family. Everyone was affected. Then Tandred goes off and helps those shipwrecked orcs? I know he was being kind -- he was a kind soul, if a bit of an ass at times -- but it was a scandal. Everyone wanted him to hang. My mother included. The Proudmoores nearly lost the Admiralty over it. There was talk of overthrowing them back then. My mother said theirs was a whole line of traitors. That they weren't to be trusted. And there were plenty of people who shared that sentiment. An example needed to be made."

Sylvanas hummed. "A sacrificial lamb led to the altar to appease the masses."

Tipping her glass towards Sylvanas as though in a toast, Lucille said, "Exactly that."

"Which doesn't exactly bode well for me."

"Oh, definitely not," Lucille said. Alcohol made her earnest and far too honest. "I think it would be a disaster, personally."

Sylvanas gave her a dangerous look. "How reassuring," she said in a silky warning tone.

Usually Lucille got the hint, but not when she was four glasses deep and reaching for the flask to pour herself a fifth. "The only thing that might salvage the relationship is the fact that you're not an orc. Kul Tirans tend to be a bit -- uhm -- how do I put it nicely -?"

"’Negatively predisposed towards those of orcish descent?’" Sylvanas supplied dryly.

“That works, yes.” 

“And what does this have to do with Jaina’s burial, exactly?”

“Well -” Lucille expertly balanced the glass on her knee while she screwed the top back onto the flask. For a moment Sylvanas thought the glass was going to crash to the floor, but Lucille was apparently as Kul Tiran as any, for she snatched up the glass without fail or fumble. “There wasn’t a body, obviously, but Katherine wanted a funeral anyway.”

“People often do.”

“Anyway, it was a big public event. The Lord Admiral couldn’t keep it secret that she no longer had an Heir. Before that, she’d told everyone that Jaina was living with us in seclusion at Waycrest Manor.”

“Ah,” said Sylvanas. She leaned back in her seat and crossed an ankle over her opposite knee. “Yes. I see where this is going.” 

Making an affirmative noise into her glass, Lucille finished her sip of whiskey and continued. “When my mother refused to let any member of House Waycrest attend, it was a public indictment in all but name. A show that the Lord Admiral’s power was slipping in Drustvar. And to top it all off, my dear mother was already neck-deep in her dabblings with Gorak Tul and the Coven, so of course she wanted the Lord Admiral out of her business, so she could take over Drustvar without any hassle. It was a damn mess.”

Sylvanas tilted her head to one side. “And what do you want for Drustvar?”

“Me?” Lucille blinked, as though surprised at being asked that question at all. 

“Yes, you. You are Lady Waycrest, are you not?” 

Turning her gaze to the fireplace, Lucille stared into the flickering hearth. “I want a Drustvar free from corruption and at peace with itself. I want to clear the smirch on my family’s name. And I want to follow a Lord Admiral who has a clear vision for Kul Tiras.”

“And you think Jaina will give you those things?”

“I do,” Lucille said with real conviction. 

“Even if it means aligning yourself with people like me?” Sylvanas gestured to herself. 

Lucille’s mouth opened, but before she could answer the front door swung open hard enough that it hit the wall and bounced back. Jaina stormed into the house, skull mask beneath one arm. Rain was caught in her cloak and her loose hair, droplets gleaming like stars. Her eyes were red-rimmed as though she had scrubbed recent tears from her cheeks. 

Katherine was conspicuously absent. 

“Right,” Jaina said, slamming the door shut behind her and stomping towards the fireplace to stand between their two chairs. “Well, that was awful.” 

Wordlessly, Lucille held out the glass of whiskey. To Sylvanas’ surprise, Jaina took it and slugged back its contents as easily as though it were water. 

“Welcome back,” Sylvanas said.

“Why did I listen to you?” Jaina asked, handing the glass back over to Lucille for refilling. 

“Think of it this way: you only have one surviving family member, so you’ll never have to do it again,” Sylvanas pointed out. 

“Thank the Tides,” Jaina grumbled.

Lucille handed the glass over to Jaina, filled with a good three fingers of whiskey. “Do we have a plan?”

“We have a plan.” Jaina took the glass. This time she did not immediately drain it in one gulp. Rather, she tipped it back and forth as though admiring the way the liquid slid against the interior of the glass. Then, she took a sip and said, “We march to Watermill Hill tomorrow morning to chase off the Ashvanes and wait out the winter. Or -” She craned her neck to peer out the nearest window, where the faintest sliver of dawn was creeping over the horizon. “Later today, actually. Ugh, but I need some sleep.” 

“And the Admiralty?” Sylvanas asked.

“You’re looking at the official Heir to the Admiralty and Scion of the Great Fleet. Pending the House votes, of course, but all the same. Cheers.” Jaina lifted the glass in the air, and tipped it back. What few drops remain, she cast into the fire, which spit and hissed furiously. 

Lucille and Sylvanas exchanged silent glances. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sylvanas said. 

“Yes,” Lucille agreed, though she sounded far less certain. “Congratulations, I suppose?”

In response, Jaina heaved a weary sigh. “Fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be some big battles and then they finally smooch or something idk don't ask me
> 
> Also: dnd rules apply for Druid ages because I said so


	5. Chapter 5

On the road to Watermill Hill, it began to snow. Sylvanas could smell it before it arrived. The sky grew heavy and grey. The first flakes dusted the shoulders of the troops. They cottoned onto buff coats and helms, onto cuirasses and the curve of pauldrons. The fields were blanketed, and the boughs of trees began to sag beneath the additional weight. Slowly, the land went quiet and white, until the stamp of feet and horse's hooves faded to a shadow of itself, until the mountains to the west were utterly shrouded from sight, until not even the heavy carts pulled by teams of oxen could churn together the snow and mud, so that the world seemed pall-wrapt. 

It was deep enough that it cast a strange spell over Drustvar, but not so deep that it deterred their march. The long line of troops headed ever northward. They had left behind a garrison at Barrowknoll, but only as few as they could spare. Most of the troops were all they would have for the winter ahead and the battles that awaited them. Yet even the thunderous march of an army faded beneath the weight of snow in the air and on the ground, until they walked, ghost-like, through the pale haze of the earth.

By the time they reached the river south of Fallhaven on the second day, the snow had lost all of its charm. More often than not, Sylvanas could hear the grumblings of soldiers as they pitched their tents at night. They would rub their gloved hands together and stamp their feet, cursing the temperature which lowered with every passing day. 

In her opinion, it was an improvement on the constant rain. But it would not last that way for long. Soon, the snow would freeze. The icy winds would come racing down from the glacial spine of Drustvar. The horses would starve first. The living would eat them. And then the oxen. And then -- well. That was a gruesome thought. They were far from that point yet. And if Jaina were to be believed, they would not want for food. 

The river between them and Fallhaven was broad and deep and brackish. It washed directly out to sea due east. Through the drift of snow, Sylvanas could make out the shape of canvas sheets. The masts of Ashvane merchant ships modified for war raked against the pale grey sky. There were five of them anchored in the river, choking any relief to Fallhaven by water. More ships still were stationed at Carver's Harbour, controlling the inlet to Fallhaven. Where once there had been a bridge on the westernmost end of the river, there now was nothing but smoke-blackened stumps poking out of the fast-flowing water. Without ships of their own, they would need to spend more time going all the way around to find a suitable fording spot west of their current position. 

Had this been summer, Sylvanas might have been tempted to order a bridge to be built. But summer was a distant memory, now. The city of Fallhaven itself wasn't much of a city to begin with. Its most prominent features were its belltower commanding the city square near the river, and the squat stone walls that surrounded the city's entire perimeter. It had been built with a siege in mind, commanding the river and surrounded by rolling farmland for miles around. It was the breadbasket of Drustvar. Normally, shipments of grain would sail out to the rest of Kul Tiras from the river, but the Ashvane fleet had made quick work of that. The only ground near enough to threaten it was a rise to the northeast, which Sylvanas could just make out over the top of the city if she stood up in her stirrups and craned her neck.

"It looks so peaceful, doesn't it?" Lucille said, seated on her own horse not far off. "One could almost be fooled into thinking it wasn't under siege."

"Mmm," said Sylvanas noncommittally. 

She guided her skeletal mount along the road, while Lucille rode beside her. To Sylvanas' left rode Velonara on a dark horse that looked almost exactly like Lucille's but for its white-socked legs. The three of them traveled midway along with the army, neither front and center, nor bringing up the rear. A group of Forsaken soldiers trailed after Sylvanas, whilst Kul Tiran guardsmen followed in Lucille's wake bearing the banners of House Waycrest, emblazoned with a grey falcon. 

"I can remember the first time I came to Fallhaven. I was only seven," Lucille continued blithely on. "Even then, Cyril White was in charge. A Proudmoore man through and through. He had just left a position in the Navy serving under Daelin, and my mother endorsed him as Lord Mayor of Fallhaven as a show of goodwill between our two Houses." Lucille sighed, shifting her reins between her hands. "How times change."

"Hmm," Sylvanas said again. 

Velonara remained completely silent. She rode with one leg swung idly over the saddle as though sitting half cross-legged. A small glass vial of varnish was balanced in the crook of her knee. In one hand she was wielding a small brush, which she dipped into the vial and then stroked along her fingernails to apply a careful coat of blood red paint. How she managed to not smear herself with the stuff while she rode a horse was a complete mystery. 

"Cyril's father's family are good sturdy yeoman stock," said Lucille. "Very popular with the demographic in this area. Primarily farmers, really. He made a good move by marrying into the White family, who are the local lords -- minor cousins of mine, in fact. Though more closely related to the Greys of Katherine's family, who hail further south in Fletcher's Hollow. Both of them share the same family motto, strangely enough.  _ ‘Freely we serve.’"  _

"Mmm." Sylvanas made a small gesture with her hand, a Ranger symbol to try to get Velonara's attention, but Velonara was too busy blowing on her nails to dry them. 

"So, of course, being rather politically ambitious himself, Cyril gave up his father's name and decided to adopt his mother's line for the titles and prestige. Though from what I understand he was a great success in the Navy through force of character alone. Titles tend these things, of course. One never goes beyond Captain without some sort of patronage." 

Ever since that night at Barrowknoll three days ago, Lucille had somehow gotten it into her head that she and Sylvanas were now close friends. This rather inconvenient liberty was only exacerbated by the fact that Katherine was cross with the whole lot of them, after discovering that both Lucille and Sylvanas had known about Jaina’s true identity without telling her. Where once Lucille would have ridden at Katherine’s side, now she haunted either Sylvanas or Jaina’s footsteps. After three days of unending lectures about Drustvar’s political families and constitutional climates, Sylvanas was just about ready to jump into the river. 

“Velonara,” Sylvanas turned to her Ranger. “Didn’t you say something about how the High Thornspeaker wished to speak with the Lord Admiral and Lady Waycrest?”

“Oh?” Lucille glanced over her shoulder, looking for Katherine. She had a sudden anxious air about her at the thought. 

Sylvanas nodded. “Yes. I distinctly remember it. I believe it had something to do with changes to land laws and ownership structures after the war.”

That certainly got Lucille’s attention. For all her nerves where the Lord Admiral was concerned, her expression hardened somewhat. She began tugging at the reins of her horse. “That sounds like it requires my attention. Excuse me. I will be back shortly.” 

Sylvanas waited until Lucille had ridden off, before she rounded on Velonara with a glare. “Why didn’t you save me?”

Velonara pretended not to have heard, and continued painstakingly painting her nails. 

“You are heartless,” Sylvanas accused in a complete deadpan tone. 

“Consider this your just reward, my Queen,” Velonara countered. She lifted her hand in front of her face to inspect her work, then lowered it back down to her thigh for another coat. “Now you know what I’ve had to deal with ever since you assigned me to watch her.” 

“I have learned the error of my ways. Have pity on me.” 

“Give it a few more days. She hasn’t even told you about her deepest darkest fears yet.”

“Which are?” 

“Being killed by her mother and raised to serve her in undeath. Which, I’ve been told, was a real threat at one point in time.”

“My my,” Sylvanas murmured, looking over her shoulder after Lucille. “It seems we have more in common with our dear Lady Waycrest than previously thought. What a horrifying concept.” 

Fortunately for them, Sylvanas had not been lying when she’d said that Jaina wanted to speak with Katherine and Lucille about land reforms. Lucille did not return for hours. As the army marched past the burned bridge, Sylvanas made a disgruntled noise. 

“This will add another three days to our trip,” she said. “What a nuisance.” 

Velonara had long since finished her nails, and was now looking utterly bored. “Don’t worry, my Queen. That just means there’s more time for Lady Waycrest to kindly regale us with local history. She’s a wonderfully thoughtful hostess like that.”

Sylvanas groaned. 

* * *

It was a long march around the river. Fallhaven faded into the distance, obscured by snow, until only the mountains to the west loomed. Sylvanas managed to elude Lucille for most of the day, slipping away when the army made camp to her own tent and staying there as night fell. The Forsaken kept the night watch, allowing the living to sleep. 

Sylvanas herself worked through to the morning. She did not bother with amenities in her tent apart from a foldable desk and a few chairs. She needed nothing else. When dawn began to inch over the horizon, grey and flecked with the promise of more snow, Nathanos entered her tent with a parcel of missives. Without comment, he crossed the space and handed them over. She took them, leaning back in her chair to begin perusing the latest reports. 

“Anything good?” she asked as she ran her thumb beneath the seal of a letter from Orgrimmar to break the red wax. 

“Second from the top,” Nathanos answered. 

She set the unread letter from Orgrimmar aside and turned over a small bit of folded up parchment. Unfurling the page, her eyes scanned the few lines hastily scrawled onto the note. With every sentence her eyebrows crept higher up her brow, and she sat a little straighter until she was resting her elbows upon the desk, reading avidly. 

“Well, well.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she set down the piece of parchment. “I must admit. I am impressed. Who would have thought our new Zandalari friends would be so efficient?” 

“I believe their Princess is rather keen to make an impression,” said Nathanos. 

“And she has succeeded.” 

Sylvanas tapped her finger against the parchment thoughtfully. The ships from Zandalar would be arriving at Fallhaven almost a week early. She laughed softly. “They might just beat us there, you know.”

“You always did prefer arriving to events fashionably late.”

A shadowy chuckle escaped her at that. “And they’re sure they weren’t spotted by Stormsong’s insurgents?” 

Nathanos nodded firmly. “Indeed. They are small force. Only five ships. And I understand they have a talented young shaman aboard one of them, who was able to shroud them in a fog as they sailed up the Sounds.” 

“I hope you have more good news for me,” she said, picking up the next letter.

Clearing his throat delicately, Nathanos gave a slight shake of his head. 

“Go on,” she ordered.

“As of last night the Ashvane forces have begun their assault of Watermill Hill.”

With a grunt, Sylvanas broke the seal of the next letter and began to unfold the parchment. Her eyes were already scanning the page. “As was expected,” she murmured. “I am amazed they did not begin sooner. I would have taken it a month ago.” 

“Not everyone has the resources or expertise you do, my Queen.”

“That much is clear.” She glanced at him over the top of the page. “Anything else?”

Nathanos shook his head. “No. Nothing of much interest. The usual. Trade deals. A Mak’gora was called in Orgrimmar to settle a border dispute between two parties.”

“Anyone whose death would be inconvenient for me?”

“No.”

“Good.” Sylvanas waved a dismissive hand at him, and with a bow he left.

* * *

The next few days passed without further incident. The army crossed the river at last, taking care not to freeze on the way, and marched back east towards Fallhaven until the city crept over the hills. The morning before they were set to arrive at Watermill Hill, both Anya and Nathanos entered Sylvanas’ tent this time, their expressions harried.

Sylvanas had her feet propped up on a corner of the desk. A light dusting of snow on Anya and Nathanos’ shoulders told her that it was already snowing again outside. Or perhaps it had never stopped, snow drifting lazily down straight through the night. She arched an eyebrow at the sight of them and said, “It is rare for the two of you to grace me with your company at the same time these days. Which means something’s wrong.”

“A new ship has arrived in Fallhaven’s river harbour,” Anya said.

Sylvanas waved her away. “That will be one of our Zandalari sloops scouting ahead of the others, I imagine.”

“No,” Anya said firmly, undeterred. “It is a Kul Tiran ship. Far bigger than a sloop. You would recognise it yourself, in fact.”

Scoffing, Sylvanas said, “I highly doubt that. You know I can’t spot the difference between naval vessels, Anya.” 

“You would remember this one, my Queen,” Nathanos said darkly. “We saw its ceremonial launch ourselves on the docks of Boralus.”

Sylvanas froze. Slowly, she lowered her feet to the ground. “Lady Ashvane’s ship is here? Right now?” 

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you, yes.” 

Straightening in her seat, Sylvanas looked down at the detailed map of Fallhaven, all her copious scribbled notes of Watermill Hill, and the open ledger filled with rows and rows of supplies and troops and costs. Then abruptly she pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. “Have you seen Jaina this morning?” she asked Nathanos.

He shook his head. “Still in her tent, as far as I know. Unless she took a portal from the tent itself. I wouldn’t put it past her.” 

Somehow Sylvanas could not imagine Jaina fleeing from a battle. Especially not one like this. Jaina had not shied from battle at Barrowknoll, and Watermill Hill was supposed to be a skirmish. If Lady Ashvane’s ship was here though, that might have just changed. 

"Nathanos, find out exactly who is aboard that flagship," Sylvanas ordered, already ducking from her tent and striding in the direction of Jaina's tent with hasty steps.

"Using what?" Nathanos asked. 

"Your imagination, preferably," Sylvanas drawled. She did not slow down or look over her shoulder as she spoke. "Bribe someone. Kill someone. Impersonate someone. I don't care. Just get me eyes on that flagship."

When Nathanos and Anya started trailing after her, she gestured for them to be elsewhere. Nathanos frowned and Anya huffed, but they both did as they were told. He veered off, already heading towards the river. Sylvanas paid them no heed. 

There was no raven or sabre cat guarding Jaina’s tent. Sylvanas looked around for any sign of Arthur or Adalyn, but neither were to be seen. Slowly, she approached the tent’s entrance. Her fingers parted the heavy canvas flap, and she peered in. There was motion and darkness, but she could hear nothing within. The cloying taste of magic settled in the back of Sylvanas’ mouth, but it always tended to do that whenever Jaina was nearby. Dim lamplight did little to illuminate the tent’s interior, where outside the glare of the morning sun dazzled against the snow. Sylvanas squinted, but the contrast made spots appear in her sensitive vision. 

“You might as well come in,” Jaina’s voice said, sounding exasperated. “You’re letting out all the warm air.”

Stomping her boots free of snow first, Sylvanas ducked beneath the tent flap and entered. It was indeed far warmer inside than out, though she could see no brazier. A rune had been scorched into the ground at the centre of the tent, glowing faintly. Whether that was the source of heat, or simply a ward against prying ears, she did not know. 

Most of Jaina’s personal things had been packed up into a traveling trunk at the foot of her foldable cot. The bedding had been rolled up, revealing the wooden cot frame. Jaina herself was bent almost double on the far side of the tent. She stood peering into a tiny scratched mirror that was propped against a nightstand and a few books. Sylvanas blinked in surprise. In lieu of her usual druidic robes, Jaina was wearing dark high-waisted breeches and white stockings tucked in at the knee. Her boots were gone, and instead she wore shiny black shoes with gold buckles. A greatcoat and waistcoat were slung over a chair, leaving her in nothing else but her shirtsleeves and suspenders. The skull mask and staff were nowhere in sight.

She did not turn around when Sylvanas entered the tent. Instead, she continued to fiddle with a long strip of white cloth, which she was trying to wind around her neck to form a cravat. When the cravat refused to cooperate, she straightened slightly and swore vehemently under her breath, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Ears quirked at a curious angle, Sylvanas wandered across the tent until she stood behind her. “I assume there’s a reason why you’re wearing this instead of your usual robes?” 

Grumbling, Jaina undid the messy cravat knot with jerky impatient movements. “It is part of the plan. My mother thinks I ought to be seen wearing the uniform instead of -- well, you know.” 

“The horrible deer skull, and some leaves you found on the forest floor?” 

“Yes, exactly.” 

Jaina started tugging up the stiff collar of her shirt once more, trying to get it to stay in the right position so she could try tying the cravat again. Impatiently, Sylvanas watched her struggle and fail to wrap the cloth around her neck properly, before she finally interrupted. “Do you need some help?” 

“No.”

Sylvanas lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

With a sigh, Jaina fully straightened and turned away from the mirror. “No,” she said again, this time holding out the fabric with a defeated expression. 

Eyes fixed on Jaina’s face, Sylvanas slowly reached out for the cravat. When Jaina had been angled away from her, she had not been able to get a good look at her. Now it was apparent that the clothing wasn’t the only thing to have changed. She had never seen Jaina wearing cosmetics before. They had been tastefully applied. Kohl lining her eyes, and rouge darkening her lips to a sinful shade of red. 

Smoothing out the length of silk between her hands, Sylvanas said, “You could have just asked your mother for help. I’m sure the Lord Admiral has worn enough cravats in her lifetime to know how to tie one.” 

Jaina’s brow furrowed in a thunderous scowl. “I would rather eat a rusty old horseshoe.” 

With a snort, Sylvanas said, “Lucille could have shown you, then.”

Jaina shifted her feet and her cheeks were tinged slightly pink with embarrassment. Finally she admitted sheepishly, “I thought I could figure it out on my own. I mean, how hard can it be?”

Giving her a pointed look, Sylvanas held up the long narrow length of silk and said, “Lean down for me.” 

Jaina did so without question, and Sylvanas began to wrap the cravat around her neck. She had to reach around Jaina, rising up onto her toes to be able to do so. 

“Why are you so tall?” Sylvanas grumbled under her breath as she moved Jaina’s braid out of the way.

“I think a better question is: how do  _ you  _ know how to tie a cravat?”

“I thought the answer to that was obvious.” Now that the ends of the cravat were doubly wrapped back around Jaina’s throat and hung down her chest, Sylvanas was able to sink back down to the flat of her feet to finish the job. She tugged lightly at the ends of the cravat to tighten it, and quipped, “All elves are snobs and slaves to fashion.” 

Jaina laughed softly. The corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She kept her head slightly bowed while Sylvanas straightened the upturned collar beneath the wide strip of fabric. “That makes sense,” Jaina said with faux solemnity. “Though I do wonder what that says about all the skulls and spikes you wear.” 

Sylvanas clucked her tongue in admonishment. “Skulls and spikes are all the rage in the major cities these days. Very chic. I wouldn’t expect a human from a backwater like Kul Tiras to understand.” 

“Of course. My mistake.” 

Sylvanas was far too concerned with the dimple that appeared when Jaina’s smile broadened. Her hands slowed in tying the cravat, and her fingers lingered against the warm skin of Jaina’s pulsepoint. The rope scar was a raised band of tissue looped around Jaina’s neck. Sylvanas pulled the cravat material a little higher to hide it from view. 

Jaina noticed. Her eyes flickered down to where Sylvanas’ hands rested beneath her chin, then up again to her face. “Thank you,” she murmured. 

Sylvanas’ only answer was a hum. That heartbeat quickened, fluttering like a bird’s wings under her thumb. Jaina was watching her very closely, as though waiting for Sylvanas to speak. The air felt far too warm for a Kul Tiran winter.

Sylvanas bid her hands move again. Her fingers made quick work of the last knot. She took an extra few seconds to pull the knot a little tighter before lowering her hands. That seemed to break whatever spell had settled over them. The air did not feel quite so heavy when Sylvanas was no longer touching her. 

“I should really learn how to do this myself someday,” Jaina sighed, tugging at the knot so that it was arranged just so beneath her neck and loosening it in the process. “Since apparently I’m going to be wearing this outfit quite a lot.” 

“I would offer some instruction, but I am a terrible teacher. Never had the disposition for it.”

“Too used to giving orders instead?”

“Something like that, yes.” She swatted Jaina’s hand away, and scolded her softly, “Stop that.”

Jaina huffed in annoyance, but lowered her hands and allowed Sylvanas to fix the cravat and tighten it again. When Sylvanas stepped away, she reached for the waistcoat slung over a chair and handed it over. Jaina took it with a murmur of thanks, shrugging into it. Sylvanas had to tamp down the urge to move forward again and do up the row of small dark buttons. Instead, she clasped her hands firmly behind her back, watching Jaina button up the waistcoat and tuck the ends of the cravat away. 

Swinging the Admiralty greatcoat over her shoulders, Jaina next fixed a green sash into place before fussing with the wide sleeves of her coat. She tugged at them, rolling her broad shoulders beneath the fabric and muttering curses to herself about how it inhibited her movement. In this outfit, she looked uncomfortable. She also -- Sylvanas had to admit silently -- looked incredibly good. It was a far cry from her usual druidic rags. Instead, she appeared sleek and polished. Perhaps it was the unprecedented kohl lining her eyes. Perhaps it was the red lipstick that made her mouth appear brighter and more alive. Or perhaps Sylvanas really was just staring, now. 

Jaina glanced up with a worried frown. "Do I have something on my face?" she asked, and ducked her head to gaze at herself in the tiny mirror again. "I thought I'd done the makeup all right? I'm not very good at this. I think this eye is uneven. Does it look uneven to you?"

"No," Sylvanas said. "You look fine."

Still, Jaina took a finger and carefully tried to correct the dark kohl around her blind eye. She swore to herself again. "This would be a lot easier if I could see properly."

"If I tell you that you look very striking, will that convince you?"

Jaina straightened and turned. "That depends," she said. "Are you being honest? Or just kind?"

"When have you ever known me to do something purely out of kindness?"

"That's a fair point." 

"You look very striking," Sylvanas said, more firmly this time. "Apart from all the lint on your back."

Eyes widening, Jaina tried to peer over her own shoulder. "What? Where?"

"I am joking. Your outfit is faultless."

Jaina glowered. “You are an ass.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Sylvanas drawled. “And stop fiddling with the cravat. You’ll make it come undone.”

Jaina continued her fidgeting with the fabric wound tight around her neck. “It’s suffocating. I don’t like it.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Sylvanas broke off her next sarcastic remark. Her ears twitched, hearing approaching footsteps outside, and then a hand pushing aside the tent flap. 

"Am I interrupting something?" Katherine asked, her voice cool.

Immediately, the warmth in Jaina's gaze vanished, as though poured out onto the ground. She glanced over Sylvanas' shoulder at her mother, then turned back towards the mirror to straighten her lapels. "Nothing at all," Jaina said. "What do you need?"

Sylvanas was not bothered by cold weather -- apart from the unpleasant wet -- but it was very chilly in the tent all of a sudden. She took a step towards the tent entrance and murmured, "Excuse me. I will go and come back in just a -"

"No. Stay," Jaina said. Then she added a little more softly, "Please." 

She was caught. She could make some excuse to leave, but Jaina shot her an imploring look. And it was probably better if both Katherine and Jaina received the news. So with a sigh, Sylvanas stayed put. 

For a brief moment, Katherine hesitated at the entrance to the tent, before ducking beneath the flap and stepping fully inside. The bright morning light dimmed when the flap swung back down, enclosing them all in the tent. Katherine's pale gaze took inventory of Jaina's appearance, roving over the golden bands of rank at the sleeves of the greatcoat, and the shining tasselled epaulettes. Finally, she said, "I'm glad to see it fits well. Sylvanas is right. You look very good."

Jaina's reflection in the little mirror frowned, and she turned around to face her mother fully. "I sense a  _ 'but' _ coming."

"But -" said Katherine gamely. "You are missing a few things. May I?”

Reaching into her pocket, Katherine pulled out what appeared to be braided cords made of thick gold threads. It took Sylvanas a moment to recognise them for what they were. Aiguillettes did not feature often in elven military uniforms, if at all. They were a uniquely human trimming.

Jaina hesitated, then gave a stiff nod of consent. Katherine limped closer, but paused when she stood before her daughter. She looked between the aiguillettes and her cane. Silently, Sylvanas reached out a hand.

“Thank you,” Katherine said, giving the cane to her. 

The chased silver falcon’s head retained traces of the warmth of Katherine’s hand. Sylvanas placed the tip of the cane onto the floor and leaned her weight upon it while she watched. Katherine worked quickly and efficiently, tying the complex braiding into place so that it hung from one of Jaina’s shoulders and was pinned with a silver anchor fastener right over the green sash. Jaina was absolutely still throughout the entire affair. She looked like a statue made flesh. A figure of Kul Tiran myth carved for public appreciation. 

Katherine stroked her thumb over the pin. "This belonged to your father," she said, then stepped back. "I thought you should have it." 

Something darkened across Jaina's face, then was gone again, like a cloud passing between the earth and the sun. "How thoughtful of you," she said, though she sounded less than thrilled at the idea. 

"Yes. Well." Katherine cleared her throat as though trying to clear the chilliness in the air. "More importantly, other people will remember it as such."

Jaina’s expression soured. "Of course, they will."

"I mean this as a favour."

"I'm sure you did."

"Enough with the act, my dear. We are all very tired of it."

"Act? What act?" Jaina smiled thinly. "This is very real."

To that Katherine had no reply. She and Jaina seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation featuring nothing but hard glares and unyielding stubbornness. Eventually however, Katherine relented with a sigh and held out a hand for her cane. Sylvanas gladly took this as a sign that the awkward moment was over, and handed it back to her. 

"Now, if only you walked like you didn't have a stick up your ass, you might be a bit more convincing in that outfit," Katherine said. 

Sylvanas had to bite back a snort of laughter. Jaina fumed quietly, and gave her a warning look. 

"She has a point, though," Sylvanas said in her own defense. 

"You try wearing this stupid outfit," Jaina growled. She was tugging hard at the cravat again. "I feel like I'm hog-tied and on my way to be butchered at market."

It finally dawned on Sylvanas, then. Why Jaina was so preoccupied with the cravat. Why she did not like having things tied tightly around her neck. How foolish of her to have not noticed before. Especially since she had just been touching the very scars on Jaina’s throat not a few minutes ago. 

It was one thing to hide the scars with a bit of loose fabric. It was quite another to emulate their making. 

Katherine sniffed. “You’re being overly dramatic. As always.”

Sylvanas’ coal-bright eyes darted to Katherine, then to Jaina. Neither of them were paying her any attention. They were too preoccupied with one another's presence, like two wild cats meeting in a dark alleyway. Not for the first time, Sylvanas wondered what exactly had transpired back at the Church in Barrowknoll. The two must have discussed a great deal of things, but that had clearly not included a full reveal of exactly how Jaina came to be in the position of High Thornspeaker. 

“I have worn my fair share of uncomfortable military outfits,” Sylvanas said before Jaina could fire back a retort at her mother. She carefully kept her tone smooth and light. “You get used to them. Eventually.” 

For a brief moment it seemed Jaina was still inclined to a fight, but she lowered her hand and left the cravat alone. “Yes,” she said, sounding tired now. “Yes, you’re right.” Then she shot Sylvanas a puzzled look. “Why did you come here, anyway?”

“I received news from one of my Rangers,” Sylvanas said delicately. 

“Good news, I should hope,” Katherine said. 

“That remains to be seen.” Hands clasped firmly behind her back, Sylvanas announced, “As of early this morning, Lady Ashvane’s flagship has arrived in the harbour.”

That certainly got their attention. They both glanced at her sharply, their movements and expressions terrifyingly identical. 

“The  _ LAS Integrity?” _ Katherine asked as though she had misheard. “Here?” 

“Is it really a Lord Admiral’s Ship if she’s rebelling against the Admiralty? And with that kind of name?” Jaina asked. 

“Yes, we all appreciate the irony of the situation. Thank you, my dear,” Katherine said, her tone bordering on waspish. Then she said to Sylvanas, “Do we know if Priscilla is aboard the ship?” 

Sylvanas shrugged. “I cannot say for sure. But I intend to find out.” 

“She is,” said Jaina.

Both Sylvanas and Katherine blinked and turned to look at her. 

“How do you know?” Katherine asked.

“Did one of your druids fly over it already?” said Sylvanas.

But Jaina only shook her head. She reached over to the chair, where a pair of white gloves were neatly folded. One after the other she began to tug them into place, the last of her ensemble until she appeared every inch the Lord Admiral’s Heir. “No,” she said, pushing the finely stitched quirks more firmly between the webbing of her fingers. “I just know.” 

Katherine shot Sylvanas an exasperated glance, as though seeking some sort of solidarity. Sylvanas offered none, keeping her gaze fixed on Jaina. 

“Vagueness helps nobody,” Katherine said. “Especially not in times of war.”

Jaina’s only answer was a shrug. Garbed now in the full military dress of the Navy, she strode past them both and pushed open the flap of the tent. “Shall we begin the march? I want to reach Watermill Hill as soon as possible. I have a good feeling about today.”

“Again with the vagueness,” Katherine sighed, though she followed her daughter out without further question. 

Once outside, Sylvanas took her leave, making her way towards the cavalry and reserve units. Katherine and Jaina did not speculate on her absence. They had already discussed the plan the night before. They swept off in one direction already calling for their horses, and the march began anew. 

When Watermill Hill came into sight, Sylvanas perked up a bit in her stirrups for a better look. It was one thing to hear about something in reports, and quite another to see it in person. Where she had expected a meagre fortification, there stood a small castle in its stead atop a hill overlooking Fallhaven and commanding the surrounding terrain. The eponymous watermill was stationed with a small village nestled between the hill and the river. 

More importantly however was the Ashvane army attacking it. A large force was assailing the southwest gatehouse, trying to seize entry to the west bailey. From this distance Sylvanas could see the occasional tuft of gunpowder from either side, as they returned fire on one another. Hayles and his men had already run down a number of Ashvane scouting groups on their approach to Watermill Hill, but they could not catch all of them. The ascent to Watermill Hill was a narrow road that sloped up to the main gate. All around the rest of the hill, the earth was too steep to assail without building further groundworks. The Ashvanes had funneled themselves onto this road to assault the castle. By the time the combined forces arrived to pin their quarry against the castle, the Ashvanes had raised the call of harried trumpets and were attempting to reposition themselves. It was all far too late. In a matter of moments they would be surrounded and trapped like prey in a snare.

Had Sylvanas been alive, she would have felt the hunter’s itch under her skin. As it was, she tamped down the urge to kick her skeletal steed to a faster pace and shout commands for double time. Strictly speaking, this was not her fight. Jaina was supposed to be leading the charge. And indeed, Jaina, Katherine and Lucille were all riding at the fore of the main body in order to make a symbolic statement with their presence. Which left Sylvanas restlessly commanding the left flank and bringing up the rear of the procession. 

Seated high atop her horse, she frowned over the ranks, her gaze roving in search of a particular cluster of officers. From this position she could barely make out Jaina in her stiff Admiralty greatcoat. Sylvanas saw her white-gloved hands make a sharp gesture, the motion followed by the blaring of a horn. Immediately, the troops increased their pace, the stamp of their feet like a thunderous heartbeat through the snowy fields. 

“Finally,” Sylvanas grumbled under her breath. 

Beside her, Hayles glanced up from his conversation with Anya. “Something wrong, my Lady?”

Sylvanas answered with an irritable wave. “Your future Lord Admiral is rather slow on the uptake.”

He shot her a puzzled look beneath his helm, but made no further remark. Meanwhile, Anya’s ears tilted at a curious angle and she said, “I’m not so sure about that, my Queen. Two minutes too slow isn’t bad for someone without a few centuries of experience under her belt.”

“A lot can happen in two minutes,” Sylvanas said with a warning slant of her own ears that Anya would understand but which would have left Hayles even more bemused. 

Anya bowed in her saddle and murmured, “Of course.” Her words and tone were deferential, but everything else was mocking. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “Anya, take a scouting party and bring me back the latest report on the walls,” she ordered. 

With another low bow, Anya did as commanded, leaving Hayles riding in uncomfortable silence at Sylvanas’ side. He made no attempt at small talk, which she appreciated. Nor did any of the other officers trailing in her wake, awaiting their commands. She craned her neck back to look up, spying a raven wheeling slowly overhead, its broad black wings a spot of black against a backdrop of white. A few minutes later, Arthur flapped down through the gentle sprinkling of snow, landing atop the bony neck of Sylvanas’ horse. 

“They’ve engaged the Ashvanes just now,” he reported, shuffling a bit on the exposed vertebrae in an attempt to find better purchase with his talons. 

Sylvanas nodded. “Good. And the Ashvane guns?”

“Still pointing to the castle. They couldn’t turn them around in time.” 

“You and your men are to be commended, Hayles,” Sylvanas said without looking in his direction. “The scouts you ran down could not give away our advance.” 

He shifted his weight in the saddle and knuckled his forehead beneath the flat brim of his helmet almost bashfully. Ever since their encounter with Captain Ashvane last week, when Sylvanas had lost her temper, he had been remarkably more docile when she presumed to give orders.

Some time later, Anya’s horse loped easily towards them. She pulled back on the reins, slowing to a trot, and then finally a stop before them. Her horse’s dark coat was spotted with snow. When it snorted and shook its head, small plumes of white steam trailed from its nostrils. 

“Anything?” Sylvanas asked.

But Anya shook her head even as she reached forward to pat her horse on its neck. “Nothing yet.” 

With a resigned sigh, Sylvanas leaned back in her saddle. “Then, we continue to wait.” 

Whereas Hayles and the others seemed perfectly content to do so, Sylvanas did not share in their leisure. They formed a separate little group a few paces away from her. Anya chatted easily with the others, joking about her latest conquests over cards the night previous with the group of officers. Sylvanas ignored them, keeping her eye upon the main body of their forces, watching the toil of a fight beginning. She did not begrudge Anya’s ease with the others. Far from it. Her orders had been for Anya to endear herself with the locals, to make herself a crux of information. And judging by the way a number of the officers laughed at one of Anya’s crude jokes, she was doing an excellent job of it. 

“Not like that,” Sylvanas muttered to herself as she watched Jaina’s movements from a distance. She made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat and tightened her grip upon the reins. 

Arthur was preening himself, still perched on the neck of her horse. “Did Jaina do something wrong?” 

Mouth pursed to a thin line, Sylvanas shook her head. Jaina hadn’t done anything wrong. It just wasn’t exactly how Sylvanas would do it. She was not suited for sitting in the wings and watching. The last time Sylvanas had done this had been when her mother was Ranger General and given her young daughter a colonel’s command as a learning experience. 

The snow was deepening. As the afternoon dragged on, flurries of white drifted from the sky like flour through a sieve. Hayles’ cavalry and the infantry battalion of the left flank stamped their feet in an attempt to warm them. The soldiers huddled as close together as they dared without breaking ranks. Sargents rustled along the lines, keeping calm and order while they waited and watched the main force continue to fight. At least Sylvanas wasn’t alone in her restlessness. 

In the distance a rallying cry went up along the Ashvane ranks. Sylvanas straightened in her saddle, and she could hear Anya and the others do the same. She opened her mouth to give a command, but stopped and frowned in confusion. Rather than begin pushing against where Jaina’s combined troops had pinned them against the castle, the Ashvane’s right flank surged forward towards the eastern walls.

Rounding on Anya, Sylvanas snapped, "Get me vision on that area.” 

Anya tugged at the reins of her horse, but before she could urge her mount forward, Arthur said, "I got it! It'll be faster if I fly over."

With a flap of his wings, he flew off into the air. Sylvanas kept an eye on him for as long as she could, but he was soon lost through the veil of snowfall. Various other reports from scouting groups trickled in while she waited for his return, officers in drab Forsaken uniforms giving detailed accounts of the front lines’ actions. 

By the time Arthur returned, she had set her horse to pacing, her crimson gaze trying to pierce through the snow. The sunlight filtering through the clouds reflected across the blanketed ground. She had to blink away the blinding glare. She did not want to think of what this would be like if she had still been alive and her oversensitive eyesight had been exposed to the glare.

Arthur landed on her shoulder. "There's some Fallhaven soldiers caught outside the westernmost walls," he said. "They're fighting with the Ashvanes over a little door in the walls."

Sylvanas' eyes widened. "A sally port?" 

In reply Arthur shrugged his wings. 

Swearing under her breath, Sylvanas yanked on the reins. Her skeletal horse bounded forward. Snow was cast about by every heavy fall of its hooves. “All troops march to the western walls! Double time! I want us there post-haste!”

The group of officers went scurrying about in her wake. Flags were raised, standards waving signals to relay orders to the regiment, as well as to alert their allies of their actions. 

“How many did you see?” Sylvanas asked.

“A few thousand Ashvanes?” Arthur said uncertainly. “Far less Fallhaven soldiers, that’s for sure.” 

Hayles was urging his horse to catch up to her. 

“Screen our left flank!” Sylvanas said to him. “And if the enemy try to run, chase them down!”

“Yes, my Lady.” And with a salute, he began shouting orders to round up his men. 

She only pulled back on the reins and sat firmly in her saddle to stop her horse when she had reached the foremost ranks of Forsaken infantry. Anya shadowed her movements rather than stay with the cavalry; her bow was already drawn, expression wary as though expecting an attack on her queen at any moment despite the fact that the enemy was still a good distance away. For their part the Forsaken infantry seemed emboldened by Sylvanas’ presence. Their ranks bristled like a wall of spears and axes and ranks of muskets six deep. 

As they advanced, a few junior officers kept sending daunted glances in her direction. It seemed to get even worse when the cluster of higher ranking officers found her again and gathered to her side, waiting for any other orders she might give. 

When they drew closer to the enemy, a cavalry company broke away from the Ashvane flank. They rode forward, skirting around the hill further west. Already Sylvanas could see Hayles riding out to meet them, screening their flank and keeping the Ashvane cavalry at bay, allowing them to advance. Pistols fired, their shots muted across the snow and distance so that they sounded less like a volley and more like the patter of rain. Meanwhile the Ashvane infantry were caught. Most of them had turned to face the attack, but Sylvanas could still see skirmishing near the walls just behind them. 

Ahead of her, the first line of Forsaken infantry dropped to their stomachs, the second kneeling behind them, and the third remaining standing. All three aimed down the sights of their muskets, awaiting the command to fire. Officers roared out the order, and gunsmoke tinged the air a dirty grey. The three ranks shuffled back as quickly as possible, while the three behind them stepped forward to do the same. 

Slowly they advanced up the hill towards the enemy position, exchanging fire. If the Ashvanes had been better equipped and had a larger force, they might have been able to stave off the attack until they could retreat back to the safety of their main lines. But whatever they sought at the sally port was too valuable to give up so easily. They held their ground even as the Forsaken crept ever closer, close enough that the rows of pikemen could step forward and stab at one another. Blood sprayed across the snowy hillside. The Ashvanes’ red coats hid most of the gore, while the Forsaken bled black and sluggish. 

For every Undead that fell -- pinned by spears, or chopped at with axes, or shot -- three more Ashvanes fell before them. From her position near the front ranks, Sylvanas could see the fear on their faces as they realised exactly what kind of enemy they were facing. She heard panicked cries go up -- some nonsense about Drust ghouls -- and the enemy line began to falter. A musket ball went spinning past her, near enough that she could hear it whistle through the air, but she did not flinch. She could hear Arthur give a great squawk of protest and launch himself into the air with a hurried flap of wings. 

Well, if the Kul Tirans were squeamish about the Undead, she ought to give them a show to remember.

Kicking her horse forward and pulling her bow from her back, Sylvanas barked orders at the group of officers behind her. “Push forward! Drive them against the walls! And make it look rabid! The rest of you, with me!” 

A few of the humans appeared puzzled at these commands, but the Forsaken officers’ eyes glowed a keen and sickly gold. The orders swept quickly through the ranks, and the fighting reached frenzied heights. With a company of soldiers at her back, Sylvanas leapt from her horse and strode to the right flank to cut off the enemy’s route back to the west bailey, leaving only one retreat. Every arrow she fired into the enemy’s flank shrieked as it soared through the air, streaking with veins of black energy. When they struck into the sensitive exposed flesh of a neck or shoulder, tendrils of dark necrotic magic would lash along their bodies so that they fell, twitching and bloated as though they had been drowned in a fetid lake. 

It did not take long for the Ashvane line to break. They were outnumbered and pinned against the castle walls on a steep slope. Soon, they were routed and scrambling down the hill towards the snowy western fields, where Hayles and his cavalry would chase them down. Sylvanas fired a few shots after them, her arrows arcing through the air and finding their targets with deadly accuracy. Red-coated soldiers stumbled to their knees, choking on blood and falling into the bank of snow. 

“Anya, get your horse and join Captain Hayles. Take Arthur with you. He can help track down anyone who runs,” Sylvanas said. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know that Anya had been beside her through the thick of the fight, ensuring her safety. “If the Ashvanes even think about regrouping, kill them.” 

With a silent bow, Anya darted off through the snow in search of her horse near the base of the hill. Overhead a black speck in the sky soared after her. Sylvanas shouldered her bow and turned back towards the castle. Her soldiers had surrounded a group of grey-coated Fallhaven troops near the sally port while the Ashvanes fled. Her ears twitched when she heard raised human voices. Frowning, she rose up on her toes to see over the warren of tall Forsaken soldiers, but could only catch glimpses of steel and snow and grey stone walls. 

Rows of undead soldiers parted before her like a wave, making way for their Dark Lady as she walked towards the ruckus. A cohort of Fallhaven infantrymen held their rows of pikes at the ready, aiming down the sights of their muskets, ready to fire should any of the undead get too close. They were gathered round what appeared to be their leader, a greying man with a bushy mutton-chop beard and fierce pale eyes, who had one hand clenched around the handle of a gilded silver pistol and the other around the hilt of a fine sword. 

“Get that bloody door open, already!” he roared over his shoulder. His cocked hat was silver-trimmed and dark. When Sylvanas stepped forward from the ranks of the Forsaken, he pointed his pistol at her, his expression hard. “Not another step!” 

Lifting her hands to show she was unarmed, Sylvanas continued walking forward. “I mean you no harm. Are you the garrison commander?”

He pulled the trigger, firing a warning shot at her feet. A plume of snow burst up around her greaves and she froze. 

“I said -” he snarled,  _ “- not another step.” _

“In case you haven’t noticed, I have just helped drive off your invaders,” Sylvanas said. She kept her hands up; it would be easier to reach for her bow and quiver if this turned messy.

Flinging aside his pistol, he held out his hand and an officer near him gave him another, which he again levelled at her. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve helped us. But I do know you lead an army of ghouls, and you yourself are no living creature.”

“Oh, good. You have eyes. I was beginning to wonder.”

With his thumb he cocked the pistol. She arched an unimpressed eyebrow at him, though her hands were ready to snatch up her bow. Before he could shoot her properly this time, the heavily fortified gate swung open behind him with a great groan, and four men stumbled out in its wake. “Lord Cyril!” one of them cried, “You must come to the battlements at once! The -!” 

“Quiet, lad!” he snapped, not once looking away from Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas’ hands lowered a fraction. “Lord Cyril, did you say? Cyril White?” 

“And what of it?” Cyril growled.

She remembered that name. She remembered Lucille’s local history lessons, and the utter boredom that had come with them. Finally she said, “I have come with your cousin. Perhaps you remember her?” 

His bushy brows furrowed in bemusement. “My cousin? What are you talking about -?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Wait. You’re here with Kath?” 

“I am.”

The moment of hesitation vanished, followed by suspicion. “And why should I believe the Lord Admiral would be here? Let alone with the aid of -” He waved his pistol at her overall appearance with a disparaging look. “- someone like you.” 

Sylvanas’ mind raced. The fact that he still called Katherine ‘The Lord Admiral’ even after she had technically been deposed by Lord Stormsong was a good start at least. She thought back to every inane thing Lucille had told her about on the march north, trying to scrape together any information that might be useful. Cyril’s frown was deepening with every passing second, and she said quickly,  _ “Freely we serve.”  _

It was the first thing that she could think of, and it was just enough to give him pause. Cyril blinked at her, though he did not relax a whit. 

“If I tell you that she takes her tea with milk and no sugar, will you believe me?” Sylvanas said. “What about if I said she can beat anyone at a game of whist? Or that she enjoys needlework? Or that her grandfather used to tell her stories of the Old Bear that haunted the Crimson Forest?”

Cyril’s face screwed up in confusion, but his stance relaxed. Slowly, he lowered his flintlock. “Who the bloody hell are you?” 

Lowering her hands fully now, Sylvanas said, “I am a friend. And I am here to reinforce Watermill Hill, along with Lady Waycrest, the Lord Admiral, and the Lord Admiral’s Heir.”

_ “Heir?” _

Behind him one of the soldiers who had burst through the sally port from before said, “That’s what we’re telling you, my Lord! It’s not Lady Waycrest leading the army!”

Momentary flummoxed, Cyril stood there without speaking or moving until with a shake of his head he sheathed his sword and tucked his flintlock away into his belt. “Get everyone inside!” he ordered his own men, then turned to Sylvanas. “What role would you play in all of this?”

“Let me and my soldiers in, and we will help you man the walls,” Sylvanas said, already giving a significant look to a nearby officer of her own, who bowed and trotted off to relay her orders.

Cyril looked less than pleased at the prospect of letting in her and the other undead. When he pursed his lips and scowled, the resemblance between him and Katherine was far more pronounced. “Very well,” he said, already turning and ducking through the sally port. 

The sally port was small enough that she had to duck as well to pass beneath it. Inside, the narrow stone corridors of the castle were a hive of activity. People rushed about, carrying munitions, carrying gunpowder and arrows, their arms filled with gauze for the medical wing or other supplies. Everyone had to press themselves against the walls to pass one another, soldiers hugging their weapons and shuffling sideways until they could reach the mustering grounds. 

Most took little notice of Sylvanas. A few puzzled frowns were cast in her direction. Her Forsaken infantry garnered more attention. Some people swore, startled, when they saw an undead soldier looming beside them. A fight nearly broke out somewhere behind her. Sylvanas heard shouting and people shoving one another, until a sergeant roared at them to cease the kerfuffle. She paid them no heed, trailing close on Cyril’s heels.

The castle mustering grounds were a small square of churned mud and snow. Cyril lengthened his stride and trotted up a set of narrow stairs leading to the nearest parapets. His sword clanked against his greaves. When they reached the top, it was a struggle to even get to the crenellated battlements. Archers and musketmen were clustered along the walls, firing from their positions down into the amassed Ashvanes at the gates. Every now and then a cannon would boom out, and bits of rock would be knocked loose from the walls while men crouched down and covered their heads, shrinking away from the blast. 

Cyril shoved his way to the front to get a good look at the battlefield below. “Where?” he demanded of the soldier that had opened the sally port and followed in Sylvanas’ wake. “Show me.”

Before the soldier could answer, Sylvanas pointed. “There.” 

Cyril squinted, shielding his eyes with the flat of his gloved hand. True enough, just behind the Waycrest lines rode Jaina beneath the standards of House Waycrest. Somewhere along the way, Katherine and Lucille had managed to procure a gold-tasseled, anchor-stamped standard of the Admiralty, which waved proudly beside the dull gray banners bearing the falcon of Drustvar. Even from this distance Jaina was impossible to miss, her pale braid a stark contrast to the dark wool of her greatcoat, surrounded by officers in their glittering finery, Katherine and Lucille riding behind her like personal guards. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Cyril muttered under his breath, slowly lowering his hand. 

Another boom of cannons crashed through the air. This time the massive iron-bound doors to the castle shook. Pieces of wood splintered and buckled beneath the concentrated barrage. 

Immediately Sylvanas turned and snapped at one of her Forsaken officers, “Get all of our reserve troops onto the mustering grounds and into formation! Prepare for a breach!” Then she turned her attention back to Cyril. “Do you have any cannons of your own?”

“We do, but we ran out of shot yesterday afternoon. We’re under-resourced, and we’ve already had to repel two attacks on Watermill. Everything else we have is in reserve in the city, should we have to fall back.” 

Swearing in Thalassian, she glanced over the parapets. The Ashvanes were scrambling to reload their cannons. Everything they had was facing the castle gates. They had already taken the bailey and set down planks to cross to the main motte. This castle was old. Its walls were flat and tall, neither sloped nor angled. It was not built to withstand more modern artillery fire. 

“They need to break through and take the keep to regain a defensible position, otherwise they’ve lost,” she said. 

Cyril nodded. “I will bring everyone I have to the mustering grounds. We will hold them off as long as we can.” 

Sylvanas reached over her shoulder and counted the number of remaining arrows in her quiver. “Bring me as many arrows as you can spare. I will stay on the battlements.” 

He barked an order at someone nearby, who scurried off to do just that. Then with one last parting glance in her direction, Cyril strode back down to the grounds to gather his men in the courtyard and wait for the worst. 

The soldiers along the walls gave her odd looks but said nothing to her as they continued to fire down into the mass of the enemy. Sylvanas drew back her bow and fired alongside them. Someone brought her another large quiver bristling with arrows, which she placed on the ground at her feet. When her own quiver ran out, she exchanged the two. The Ashvanes would return fire, and musket balls would go whizzing past her. She along with the soldiers beside her would duck behind the crenellation. Several of the others slipped in the snow gathered along the walkways, and they would scramble to press their backs against solid stone, holding their weapons over their heads in an attempt to protect themselves. Chips of stone would scatter from the old walls like shrapnel as the barrage peppered the battlements. 

Peeking carefully back over the walls, her hands were already drawing back on the bowstring, the fletching of a fresh arrow brushing against her fingers. Then she paused. She blinked through the glare of light against the snow, and tried to get a better look through the constant flurry drifting from the sky. 

New sails had appeared in the distance. A group of ships were sailing in formation towards Fallhaven.

“Who the fuck are they?” said a soldier beside her.

“No idea,” said another. “More Ashvanes, probably. Look at them red sails.” 

“Those aren’t Ashvanes,” Sylvanas said, startling them though she did not raise her voice. A dangerous fanged smile had spread across her face. “Those are mine.” 

A distant boom sounded out and a puff of smoke trailed through the air. The Zandalari ships were engaging the Ashvanes, going right for the throat and aiming for  _ Integrity  _ with a boldness that bordered on madness. The Kul Tirans may have been a seafaring people, but the Zandalari were just as formidable on the waves. And the Ashvanes were traders at heart. This was not the pride of the Great Fleet of Kul Tiras. These were merchant ships that just so happened to be outfitted with guns. 

Their only hope of winning relied on the fact that Lady Waycrest could muster no ships of her own in time to contend with them. They had not expected to test their mettle against battle-hardened Trollish warships. 

“Not a moment too soon, either,” Sylvanas muttered to herself. 

The soldiers beside her were watching avidly. A few of them gave whoops of excitement and slapped each other on the back, their grins fierce and broad. One of them even patted her on the shoulder in a comradely fashion. She slowly turned to fix him with an incredulous glare, and he snatched his hand back as though suddenly afraid she would bite it off. 

“Celebrate later!” she snapped at them. Rising to her feet, she shot another arrow down onto the invaders. “Keep firing!” 

Immediately they straightened their backs and leapt to do as they were told. The roar of cannons filled the air once more as the Ashvanes fired off another desperate barrage directly at the gate. Wood splintered and chunks of the door rained down with the snow. Ashvane soldiers thundered across their makeshift bridge, pushing and shoving at the gap that had been gouged into the iron-banded wood. Above them, Fallhaven troops manning the walls strained at the handles of enormous wrought-iron bowls heated over coals. They turned the bowls over, tipping their contents through slits in the stone at their feet and pouring hot oil onto the invaders. Below Sylvanas could hear a muted splash followed by hair-raising screams. 

A cry came from somewhere along the walls. “Damn your eyes! Are you blind? Lower the portcullis already!”

Two men sprinted for a windlass. They heaved their weight against the spokes of the crank, and the stones beneath them groaned and creaked as the mechanism began to slowly turn. The heavy portcullis shuddered in its place and crept lower. Then there was a grinding snapping sound, like that of a tree being felled, and the windlass turned no more. 

“It’s stuck!” one of them shouted.

Two more people raced over and began hauling on the spokes of the windlass, but the mechanism was as old and rusted as the castle itself. Below them, Sylvanas could hear the sounds of fighting breaking out in the courtyard. Leaning over the walls as far as she dared, Sylvanas peered down at the mouth of the gate. Red-coated soldiers boiled like an upended nest of ants, shoving at the gates, hacking with axes and swords to widen the breach and get inside as quickly as possible. Behind them, Jaina’s troops were breathing down their necks, trapping them into place.

Reaching over her shoulder, Sylvanas counted only three arrows left in the spare quiver that had been brought to her. Resolutely she shouldered her bow, squared her jaw and hauled herself up so that she crouched atop the crenellation. It felt all too familiar. Standing on the edge of a frozen keep, flecks of ice and snow drifting around her as she stared down the long steep drop. 

“Ma’am!” one of the nearby soldiers called out to her in a panic. “Ma’am, what are you doing? You are going to fall!” 

“Yes, soldier,” she said calmly without glancing over at him. “That is the point.” 

And she stepped off the ledge. 

The castle walls were not perfectly smooth and uniform. They were far too old for that. Bits of stone stuck out at odd ends, dislodged by time and the slow shifting of the earth beneath them. And somewhere along the way, the owners of this castle had repaired the arrowslits staggered along the walls, and they had done a poor job of it. Blocks of stone created little ledges like steps at various points. Nimbly, she dropped atop the nearest arrowslit. She did not stop to take a moment and steady herself before leaping to the next. One of her hands kept touching the wall, ready to cling to a bit of stone should she need to dodge any incoming fire. But none came. 

The Ashvanes were now so preoccupied with what was before them, they did not think to look up. Swiftly and silently, she picked her way to just above the gates, and then leapt down. She drew the bow from her back midair, and fired two shots onto the ground below. The arrows snapped with black necrotic energy and their impact was accompanied by a blast like cannon fire, flinging soldiers back. Landing with a lithe roll, Sylvanas did not stop. She continued towards the gate until she was between it and the portcullis which guarded the outer section of the wall. With the last arrow, she pointed her bow not at the incoming Ashvanes, but up. The arrow struck the mechanism that locked the portcullis into place, and blasted it into a mess of splinters and frayed rope. 

With a great clanging groan, the portcullis was released. It slammed down onto the ground, its spiked ends landing atop a row of red-coated soldiers and impaling them against the floor. A few of them were dead immediately. Others writhed, coughing up blood or pulling at their pinned limbs in a futile attempt to free themselves. Already the Ashvanes locked out were trying to move the portcullis, but it was a web of thick dark iron. They would need to batter it aside with more than just the strength of their arms and backs. 

Over a dozen soldiers were trapped between the gate and the portcullis with her. They turned, pointing their swords and flintlocks in Sylvanas’ direction. They formed a crescent shape, bearing down upon her, their faces hard. She was outnumbered and completely out of arrows. So, Sylvanas shrugged her bow back over her shoulder and reached for the only weapon she had left.

When she pulled the silver hunting knife from her boot, they laughed.

It took her less than two minutes to kill them all. Calmly, she tugged her knife free from the last one’s chest. It caught against a rib, and she had to yank. She took a moment to clean the blade on the dead man’s coat, bodies strewn on the ground around her in various states of disassembly. The men outside the portcullis that had watched the whole affair were staring at her in silent horror. Sylvanas ignored them and strode towards the half-broken gates. Without glancing back, she hauled herself through a fractured gap in the wood and into the courtyard on the other side. 

The moment she had climbed through, a staccato of shots fired in her direction. She felt the sting of one find its mark in her thigh. Gritting her teeth and hissing, Sylvanas raised her hands and shouted, “Cease fire! It’s me, you idiots!  _ Cease fire!”  _

A few yells echoed her command, and the volley stopped. With a vicious glower, she stalked forward, her stride completely unimpeded by the musketball now lodged in her femur. She could feel the cold sludge of her blood oozing down her leg. Soldiers were arrayed in various sections of the mustering grounds, her Forsaken guarding a ramp that led up the walls, but most of the human soldiers positioned along the walls to fire down into the enemy if they managed to break through. Those that had shot at her from the walls shrank back, cowed, when Sylvanas aimed a baleful glare in their direction. 

Cyril waved her over with his hat. When she approached his position, he eyed her over. “Are you quite all right?”

She waved his concern aside. “I am fine.”

“I could have sworn they hit you.” 

“They did,” she said. She would need to see the Apothecary again. What an absolute pain. “I have managed to buy us a bit of time, but not much.”

Jamming his hat back onto his head, Cyril nodded. “When they break through, we’ll be ready for them.” 

“I don’t suppose you have any more arrows, Lord Mayor?”

Rather than answer, Cyril reached behind him for a musket that was leaning against a crate along with a series of other firearms. He tossed the musket at her, and she snatched it from the air. Sylvanas wrinkled her nose at the weapon, but took it regardless. It was heavy and cumbersome, but she would have to make do.

“Place yourself where you like,” Cyril told her with a gesture towards the castle at large. “I’ll be staying here.” 

Sylvanas turned to walk away, but paused. “Why are you stationed here instead of a garrison commander?” she asked. 

Cyril had already pulled another flintlock from the pile behind him and was inspecting its sights. “She died. Last night, I’m told. So, I sallied forth from Fallhaven with a small force in the hopes that I could give Watermill a fighting chance. Thank the Tides you lot came when you did, otherwise we’d be buggered six ways to Tuesday.” 

With a grunt, Sylvanas strode off towards the nearest steps that would lead her to the wall-walk above. She made quick work of the stairs, the pain in her leg having faded to a dull ache by now. After a few curt questions and pointed fingers, she found the squad that had shot at her. 

“Gentlemen,” she murmured silkily when she drew up beside them. 

They shuffled their feet, their faces alternatively pale or flushed with a mixture of fear and apprehension. A few of them touched the brims of their hats. None of them wanted to meet her eye. 

“Which one of you shot me?” 

A series of nervous coughs and clearing of throats followed her question. Nobody said anything. Eventually, a young man was shoved forward, the others backing away as though he were a sheep placed upon a sacrificial altar to appease the wrath of some god. He clutched his musket like it was a buoy keeping him afloat in a storm. His hands shook so badly she thought he might drop the weapon. 

“Congratulations,” Sylvanas said blandly. “You are the only one here who can aim to save their life.” 

“M-Ma’am,” he mumbled, touching the brim of his hat and quailing under her scarlet gaze. 

“Do not shoot me again.”

“N-No, ma’am.” 

“And fetch me more muskets. As many as you can carry.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

There was a beat in which he did nothing.

_ “Now,”  _ she hissed. 

He started at the dark and slithering echo of her voice. Kneeling down slowly, he placed his own musket at her feet like an offering. And then he scrambled away, sprinting off to bring her more. 

“The rest of you!” Sylvanas said, lifting her voice to be heard even though the squad was already hanging off her every word. “Get into formation! We are going to have a lesson in trigger discipline! If anyone fires without my command, I will have you flogged!”

There was very little chance that she could actually make good on that threat -- Lord Cyril was lenient letting her loose in Watermill Castle as it was -- but they certainly did not know that. Sylvanas spoke with the weight of centuries of military experience behind every syllable. A squad of only twelve men, most of whom looked like they had just come off the farm, did not have enough wherewithal to question her. Even the corporal, who was supposedly in charge of this squad, scurried to do as he was told.

There was a banging and crashing from the walls as the Ashvanes attempted to batter down the portcullis. The young man who had shot her returned, puffing up the stairs with his arms laden with muskets and extra bags of shot tied at his belt. He started arraying them all before her so that she could fire them in rapid succession, when the portcullis finally gave way with a squeal of warped metal and a clang that reverberated through the stone ground. 

Picking up a musket, Sylvanas shooed the young man away until he stood beside her, ready to hand her a firearm when she needed it. “Ready!” she yelled.

Everyone checked their weapons. A row of soldiers were kneeling on the wall-walk, while behind them another row stood to fire over their heads. The sounds of Ashvanes battering down the door to the courtyard grew louder. 

“Aim!” 

They shouldered their muskets. Their faces were pale but determined. In a snap of wood and iron, the gates caved inwards, and red-coated soldiers poured into the courtyard below them. Sylvanas waited until they were within range, carefully gauging the distance. 

“Fire!” 

The kick of the musket punched into Sylvanas’ shoulder, but her shot flew true as any arrow. A volley of musket fire showered the enemy, and a row of Ashvane soldiers staggered to the snowy ground. Puffs of smoke trailed from the long muzzles of the muskets into the air. Sylvanas roared out the order for them to rotate and reload, watching the squad’s actions carefully even as she cast aside her single-shot flintlock and reached for another. The young man passed on to her without question, taking the used musket and reloading it for her so that she could continue to shoot. For every one that a Fallhaven soldier fired, she fired three, her movements smooth and rapid.

The Ashvanes never made it further than the courtyard. The moment they set foot on the ramp, her Forsaken troops bore down upon them, shoving them back into the killing zone, where they were shot at from every angle. Red was painted in slops and sprays along the snow-strewn earth. Soldiers littered the ground, their corpses piling up with a blanket of white as snow continued to drift down from the sky. 

Overhead, a loud caw caught Sylvanas’ attention. She paused in swapping out her muskets, craning her neck to look up. The dark form of a raven flecked the sky, circling high above her and then careening off towards the gate. When she glanced down, the Ashvane soldiers had been driven to the point of exhaustion and were beginning to throw down their weapons and kneel in the snow. 

“Cease fire!” Sylvanas called out, and not a single trigger from her section of the walls was pulled further. All of the soldiers tucked their weapons against their sides, looking tired but elated. Some of them glanced in her direction as though seeking a pat on the head for their good behaviour. She rolled her eyes and drawled, “Yes. You can obey simple orders. Very good.” 

Despite her dry tone, they beamed. Shaking her head, Sylvanas turned her attention back to the courtyard.

Cyril and his men had begun the process of capturing the enemy soldiers and gathering their weapons so they could not pose a threat. A tired cheer went up throughout the castle at the sight of red-coated soldiers being lined up along the side of the courtyard to await their fate. Sylvanas did not join them. She was watching Cyril. A Fallhaven soldier had rushed up to him and was now making excited gestures towards the castle entrance. Cyril straightened his hat and said something she could not hear, before moving to stand in the centre of the courtyard and facing the entrance. 

The sound of a horn sang a single high note that shivered through the air. The cheers died down, and everyone turned to the castle entrance. At the fore of a procession through the gate rode Lucille and Katherine, and ahead of them both, like the centrepiece of a painting, was Jaina astride a white horse. Her coat was scuffed. There was a bloody tear in the sleeve from where a musket ball or sword had grazed her in the fray. A streak of blood rested high upon her cheek, as though a man had clawed at her as he died. She sat straight and tall and poised in the saddle. 

"Lord Mayor," Jaina said to Cyril, her voice carrying across the stone walls. She tugged back on the reins so that her horse stopped in the middle of the mustering grounds right before him. "I heard you were in a bit of trouble."

Cyril stared between Jaina and her mother, realisation dawning in his eyes. He nodded and replied, “Your arrival could not have been more perfect, Lady Proudmoore. You have my gratitude.”

She tilted her head to the side. Beneath her the white horse stamped its hoof and she rocked easily with the motion. “I hope I have more than that. Times are changing, Cyril, and we have much to discuss.”

Slowly, he swept his hat from his head and placed it over his heart. When he bowed, a hush fell across the mustering grounds and extended all across the walls where onlookers watched en masse. Cyril straightened, but kept his hat clasped over his chest and said firmly, “I am your servant, madam."

* * *

The castle interior was as damp and old as its exterior. As far as Sylvanas was concerned, Watermill Castle was a perfect reflection of the country itself. Sturdy. Defensible. Outdated and out of touch. By no means a jewel in anyone’s proverbial crown, but reliable nonetheless. 

After hours spent rounding up what remained of the Ashvane forces and getting the combined Waycrest and Horde soldiers settled, Cyril had led them to a side chamber that had turned into a command centre for the now deceased garrison commander of Watermill Castle. The hearth was cold and dark. A long wooden table was positioned in the centre of the room, strewn with maps and inkwells and quills and candlesticks dripping with hard pale wax. The walls were hung with moth-eaten tapestries that had seen better days and probably ought to be thrown into the tip, truth be told. Likely it would cost more to remove them than to simply leave them be. Whatever scenes they had once portrayed were long since faded from both sight and memory. 

Upon entering the room, Sylvanas had fully expected Jaina to cross over to the hearth and light it with a snap of her fingers. She did not. Instead, Jaina conversed in low tones with Cyril and her mother, while Sylvanas, Velonara and Lucille went over the latest figures from the field. Casualties. Injuries. Stock reports. 

“Hayles and Anya are still rounding up stragglers,” Sylvanas told them.

Lucille nodded, not at all surprised by this news. “Yes. Arthur told us.” 

Two soldiers trotted into the room. One carried an armful of ice-dusted firewood, which he dutifully began stacking in the hearth and coaxed a spark to life with flint and tinder from his pocket. The other was carrying a piece of parchment, which he gave to Jaina with a bow, as though offering her a great treasure. Sylvanas could hear Jaina’s murmur of thanks as she took the long unfurled scroll, and immediately set it on the table for later. 

Slowly the room began to warm, but a chill lingered along the stone walls and floors further away from the fireplace. The soldiers took their leave. Outside, the snow was coming down thick and fast now. If they had been delayed any further, their army would have been in serious trouble. Sylvanas would glance at the windows every so often and dwell on unpleasant memories of wintering with an army through unpleasant conditions. Their quiet conversation was broken up by the arrival of a few familiar faces. 

Nathanos was striding towards them. Behind him, flanked by two tall Trolls in gleaming golden finery as though they were an honour guard, was Lady Priscilla Ashvane. She was not bound in any way, but the Zandalari kept a careful eye on her movements, preventing any escape. Their hands rested against the pommels of their cutlasses with an ease that belied how carefully they were monitoring their captive. Lady Ashvane herself walked with her head held high. Her eyes glittered darkly. She wore nearly as much gold as the Zandalari, whose gilded tusks and various piercings gleamed in the lamp light. 

When they had reached the table, Nathanos bowed. “May I present, Lady Priscilla of House Ashvane, whose ship has been claimed as a prize by the Golden Fleet of Zandalar.” 

At the mention of the fate of  _ Integrity _ , Priscilla’s lips pressed into a thin white line and her hands clenched at her sides in silent anger. Nathanos escorted her to a free seat at the table, pulling out the chair like a butler. Jaina, Katherine and the others watched her like hawks. Priscilla did not flounder beneath their gazes, shoulders back and head held high as though she were being escorted not to a chair but to a gallows. 

“How good of you to join us, Priscilla,” Katherine greeted coolly. “I trust your travels were uneventful?”

Priscilla gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Quite. Thank you.” 

Offering her a thin smile, Jaina gestured to the table and said to the others, “Shall we begin?” 

Meanwhile the Trolls stood aside, waiting. Rather than sit with the others, Sylvanas stepped forward to greet the Zandalari. “Which one of you fine gentlemen is the -?” She paused for a moment, thinking back about naval ranks and which one would apply here. Finally she said cautiously, “- brigadier?” 

The Troll to the left bowed deeply to her, before straightening to his full height once more. He was staggeringly tall like all of his kin. What she had previously thought to be an angular gold necklace across his partially bare chest was actually a series of detailed tattoos carved into skin the colour of a sea at storm. 

“Commodore Issoufou,” he said by way of introduction. “It is an honour to meet you in person, Warchief.” 

“I can say the same of you, Commodore,” she replied, offering him a small rare smile. “From what I’ve been told, you and your shaman are personally responsible for our victory on the river today. You are to be commended.” 

He shook his head, his own smile wide and revealing sharp teeth. “The crew of the  _ Rhunok  _ did the real work.”

“And you should all be proud. I shall remember you to Princess Talanji.” 

With another low bow, Issoufou clasped his hand over his heart then gently touched his forehead at the mention of his princess’ name. “May she live forever,” he murmured. “I would be most grateful, Warchief.” 

“Of course.” Sylvanas made a quick Ranger gesture with her fingers at Nathanos, who had returned to her side after Lady Ashvane was seated. When he answered with a silent nod of understanding, she then said to Issoufou, “You are to scout Carver’s Harbour, but do not engage the enemy. I doubt further action will be necessary. In the meantime, I will write to Dazar’alor of your valour. I hope it is not too much of an imposition for you to take Nathanos aboard one of your ships? He will be there to report back to me only, I assure you.” 

Issoufou laughed, the sound deep and short and booming. “No imposition at all. We will have plenty for him to do. There are no idle hands on my ships. I will put him to work.” 

She smirked, ignoring Nathanos’ flat glower in her direction. “Very good. You are dismissed.” 

He left, taking his men with him. Nathanos waited until the Trolls had gone before he growled,  _ “Put me to work?”  _

“I hear life at sea is very bracing. Good for the spirit. Besides, you heard the man.” She patted him on the shoulder. “There is always work to be done on a ship.” 

“He can hire enough sailors to sink a first rate with the prize money he’s getting from  _ Integrity  _ alone.” 

“And I am sure the good Commodore deserves every copper piece.” 

When Sylvanas had turned back to claim her seat at the table, conversation had already been struck up between the others. She sat down as quietly and unobtrusively as she could, content to watch events unfold from the sidelines for now. 

Jaina sat at the head of the table, with Katherine at her right and Lucille at her left. She had her hands clasped calmly over the page the soldier had brought to her earlier. Her hands were bare, her white gloves tucked into a pocket of her greatcoat. Somewhere along the way, she had found the time to rebraid her hair so that it did not look so messy as it had after the battle. The smear of blood had also been wiped away, though it did little to make her appear less foreboding. 

Priscilla sneered at her. "You can't honestly expect me to sign that."

Jaina's stare was unflinching. She tapped her clasped hands against the parchment. "I can. And I do."

"Why on earth would I even entertain the thought? This isn't over."

"In case you haven't noticed," Lucille said from her seat. "We captured your flagship. You are our prisoner."

"And I still have a dozen more ships at anchor in Carver's Harbour. Not to mention the hundreds of merchant vessels fueling the Kul Tiran economy." Priscilla folded her arms and sat back in her chair. "What do you have? A few ragtag Trollish frigates and a prayer. Fallhaven will starve before the winter ends, and the city will fold like a house of cards."

Jaina turned a questioning look to Cyril. He cleared his throat and nodded. "It's true. We barely have enough food to feed ourselves for the next four weeks. Damn Ashvanes burned the crops a few months ago right around harvest time. We're already tightening our belts as it is."

"That won't be a problem," said Katherine smoothly. She nodded towards Jaina. "We have a solution to that."

Cyril turned a curious gaze upon Jaina, who sat at the head of the table. In her fine waistcoat and her shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, she appeared every inch the Heir to the Admiralty. When everyone at the table gave her their full attention, she made an abortive motion with her hand, as though about to scratch her face only to think better of it. Her fingers closed into a fist and she placed it deliberately in her lap. 

She was, Sylvanas realised, trying not to tug at the cravat still tied tightly around her neck.

"Have you given shelter to the farmers in the area," Jaina asked.

Cyril nodded. "Of course," he said. "As many as could safely be housed in the city."

"Good. Bring as many of them as you can to the fields north of the city tomorrow morning."

Face screwing up in confusion, Cyril said, "Might I be so bold as to ask what for?"

"To harvest crops," Jaina answered in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Katherine appeared startled. She leaned closer to her daughter and lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, which Sylvanas' keen ears could still pick up across the table. "This isn't what we agreed."

"No," Jaina said firmly, not bothering to lower her voice at all. "It isn't. But it is what will happen nonetheless."

"We should bring them after you've -" Katherine made a fluttering gesture with her fingers, trying to hide the movement from Priscilla's keen eyes.

Jaina's expression was chilly. "Say it."

Blinking, Katherine leaned back in her seat. "What?"

"Say it," Jaina repeated, and now her words could have been carved from ice. "Say:  _ 'after I have used magic to make the plants grow.'" _

Lips pursed in a thin line, Katherine sat ramrod straight in her seat. In spite of her affected poise, her pale eyes darted to Cyril and Priscilla, then flicked back to Jaina. "We talked about this," she said her voice hushed and hurried, as though explaining something to an unruly child. "Kul Tiras has never had a Lord Admiral who was also able to use magic before."

"Magic is part of who I am. I will not hide it."

Before Katherine could retort, Sylvanas interrupted calmly, "She couldn't, even if she wanted to."

Now every pair of eyes swung towards her at the opposite end of the table. 

"What do you mean?" Katherine asked. "If she just didn't use it in front of people, then -"

But Sylvanas shook her head. "I do not think you quite understand. Most people might not notice, yes. However, others will only have to stand in her presence to know. Powerful magic users cannot hide what they are."

Katherine scoffed. "And I suppose you can sense her presence, or some such rubbish?"

"Yes." Sylvanas caught Jaina's gaze across the table and held it. "She reeks of arcane. Like a thunderstorm in summer. It is very distracting, truth be told."

Jaina appeared taken aback by the odd confession. On the other hand, Katherine wrinkled her nose -- more in distaste than in disbelief -- an expression that was shared by Lady Ashvane. 

"So, it's true. I thought Alfred was just spouting some Tidesage bollocks about the Drust, but he was right. You’re a witch." Priscilla shook her head and leaned an elbow heavily upon the armrest of her chair. She spoke to Katherine, now. "I thought we had finally rooted out this damned Drust infiltration when Meredith died, but now it has hooked it's claws into the Admiralty itself. You ought to be ashamed, Katherine."

Jaina's face darkened. Her eyes blazed. When she spoke her voice was wintry. “You have nothing, and you will sign this treaty or reap the consequences.” 

“You can’t hang me.”

“I don’t need to hang you to win.” 

An ugly look crossed Priscilla’s face, and she hissed, “I haven’t lost, yet. My people will ransom me back. I will buy the rest of your army. You have nothing.” 

Leaning back, Jaina drummed her fingers against the page. Her fingertips created a dull staccato rhythm against the solid wood. For a moment Sylvanas thought Katherine or Cyril might interject and take charge of the conversation, but then Jaina spoke, "It was obvious you could never attempt to invade western Drustvar until you had secured Fallhaven and the east. It would be too difficult to supply your army when the pass at Arom’s Stand was inaccessible during winter. To say nothing of what would have happened if your men had dared come into the Crimson Forest. From there it was only a matter of time. You have money, yes, but nothing else. You're not the Navy. I can break any siege with food. But most of all, I knew I could always depend on you being as untrusting as you are untrustworthy. So, of course, you came here personally. Because war is expensive. Because you believe your officers are incompetent fools. Because you wanted this over as quickly as possible. The moment you sailed to Drustvar, you lost. All I had to do was wait."

Silence fell over the room. Priscilla glared at her, but the effect was dampened by the way she darted her eyes towards Katherine and Sylvanas, as though weighing up her chances. 

Jaina cocked her head to the side, considering Priscilla with an unblinking gaze, as if looking right through her. Then, she reached out and slid the paper across the table closer towards Priscilla. "Sign it."

Priscilla's throat bobbed when she swallowed thickly. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as though she were cornered. Slowly, she lifted the page and began to read it more closely. Her brows furrowed darkly as she scanned the lines of flowery script. By the time she reached the bottom, her cheeks were flushed with incredulous anger.

"You can't be serious," she snapped, though she did not push the treaty aside. "Severe munitions limitations on merchant vessels? Removing the press and running the Navy on volunteers alone? Giving Drust the ability to own land? And opening the borders to the likes of -?" She suddenly pointed towards Sylvanas and spluttered,  _ "- her?" _

Sylvanas bared her teeth in a smile, but remained silent.

Meanwhile Jaina said firmly, "The borders of Kul Tiras will open whether we like it or not. By force. By attrition. By choice. It will happen. All we can do is choose how."

Even Lucille and Katherine looked a bit uncomfortable at that declaration. No one at the table said anything to the contrary however. Cyril shifted in his seat but nodded with a small resigned shrug. 

Priscilla narrowed her eyes. “What else is there? Surely this can’t be everything?”

“No, you’re right. It isn’t.” Jaina’s face was a cold unwavering mask. “I want you to travel with me to Boralus as soon as this is all over. We will call a meeting of the Great Houses, and I want you to vote for me to become the next Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras.” 

“Any why would I do this?” 

“I can offer you incentives.” 

“Which are?”

"You will vote for me, and not only will I permit you to keep your life, you will keep your station, your name, your wealth -"

"But not my pride," Priscilla sneered.

"No," Jaina murmured. "Your pride belongs to me."

A log slipped in the hearth and the fire popped, casting a cascade of sparks onto the soot-blackened stones before it. Outside it was beginning to grow dark. Night came early to Drustvar in winter. Priscilla worried a corner of the parchment between her ringed-bright fingers. Then she sighed. Her shoulders slumped and she gestured for Jaina to pass her the quill. Wordlessly, Jaina slid the inkwell and quill towards her. The rest of the table seemed to hold its breath -- apart from Sylvanas and Nathanos -- as Priscilla scratched her signature onto the bottom of the document with an angry scribble. 

Jaina rose to her feet and pulled the document back towards herself. “Cyril,” she said, “Would you be so good as to witness this for us?” 

“Certainly, madam.” 

“Good.” 

She signed the document herself, then passed it to both her mother and Lucille in turn. Eventually it made its way into Cyril’s hands, and he checked that everything was in order before he picked up a quill and signed beneath all their names. 

As if not believing his own words, Cyril said, “I hereby witness that all present parties have sworn that this document shall be observed in good faith and without deceit, given by our hand, and so pass the Treaty of Watermill.”

“Jolly good,” Lucille said, sounding relieved. 

Priscilla was pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need a stiff drink. Or five.” 

* * *

By the time they rode into Boralus, the snow had faded and it was -- predictably -- raining. Sylvanas had almost grown accustomed to the rugged terrain of Drustvar, so that the countryside of Tiragarde Sound felt tame in comparison. Here there were no vast and wooded forests, no plains of dun and purple heath as far as the eye could see. Instead the snow-capped peaks dwindled on the horizon. 

People had stared and pointed when they had entered the capital. Word had quickly spread that Katherine, Lucille, and Priscilla had all entered the city together. There were confused murmurs at the sight of Jaina, speculation running wild. 

Meanwhile, Sylvanas, riding at the back of the procession, had her cowl drawn low over her head. She remained as inconspicuous as possible and garnered very little attention. No Forsaken or Tauren accompanied her, and she was trailed only by the three Rangers she had first brought with her to Kul Tiras. As soon the Treaty of Watermill had been signed, she had ordered her Horde troops to begin their travels back to Kalimdor. The last thing they needed was for Jaina to be seen riding into the city with the Horde at her back. 

Not yet, anyway. But that would come later. Sylvanas was greatly looking forward to seeing a Horde banner flying on the docks of Boralus. Or perhaps even from Proudmoore Keep. She hadn’t decided yet. 

Proudmoore Keep itself was as draughty and incommodious as ever. She could not tell who looked more uncomfortable being there: Jaina or Priscilla. It was a close match. Whereas Lucille and Katherine strode through the halls, chatting idly, Lady Ashvane grimaced at a butler who came to take her cloak. On the other hand, Jaina just looked like she was going to be ill. 

A steward was speaking in low courteous tones to Katherine, “Lord Stormsong arrived just before you, madam. I took the initiative of escorting him to the audience chamber.” 

“Very good, Bernard. Tell him we’ll be there shortly. And bring some tea while you’re at it.”

The steward bowed. “Right away.” 

Jaina’s face seemed to lose a bit more of its colour. “Lord Stormsong is already here?”

“Of course, my dear,” Katherine said, already striding off in the direction of the audience chamber. Every alternate footsteps clacked as her cane contacted the stone floors. “Alfred always was a stickler about being on time.” 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Priscilla said, her lip curling just slightly. “For the leaders of the Great Houses to meet so you could rub your victory in our faces?”

Jaina scowled at her. “No.” 

“Well, if you’re getting cold feet, you could elect me Lord Admiral instead.” 

At that, Lucille said firmly, “Not to be crude, Priscilla, but I would rather vote for a shit-farmer from Dampwick.” 

Ahead of her, Katherine snorted in amusement. 

Jaina wrung out her braid while they walked, sending drops of water splattering to the floor. “I just thought I would have time to change into something dry.” 

“Welcome back to Boralus,” Sylvanas muttered under her breath.

Just outside of the audience chamber, Lord Stormsong stood flanked by two Tidepriests with their faces deeply cowled and their eyes blazing. The shadows seemed to cling to them, and the lanterns strung from their belts glowed with a faint blue light. Lord Stormsong himself was a tall man with dark eyes. His height was only accentuated by the mitre of office he wore. He clutched a scrolled staff in one hand and glowered as the group approached. 

A butler was trying to serve him tea, but he waved the man away irritably. “No, thank you,” he said.

“A cup for me, please,” Katherine said, drawing up to the butler and hooking her cane beneath her elbow so she could take the tea. “Hello again, Alfred. You’re looking as cunning as ever.” 

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Katherine,” he greeted. “I thought you’d died when I sunk your flag off the coast of Tol Dagor.”

Katherine sipped primly at her tea. “And give you the satisfaction of having killed me? Never.”

His only response was a sour grunt. 

Sylvanas watched this interaction from the sidelines with a muted kind of glee. She had spent the last few years enduring the politics of Orgrimmar, most of which involved a great deal of fisticuffs and beating of chests. This veiled cutting back and forth however, was far more similar to what she had grown up with back in Silvermoon. She almost felt a touch nostalgic. It was difficult to keep her expression neutral.

Alfred’s dark eyes moved to Lucille. “You look even younger than when I last saw you.” 

“And you’re just as insufferable as I remember,” Lucille said cheerfully. She held out her hand to the butler bearing a tea tray and said, “I think I need one of those too, if you please.” 

“Tides,” said Priscilla. “Can we just get this bloody thing over with?”

Alfred turned to her. “I don’t know what you mean. A meeting of the Great Houses has been called, and so I have come as summoned. But so far nobody has deigned to tell me why.” 

With a contemptuous sniff, Katherine said, “Don’t play dumb. It really doesn’t suit you.” 

Alfred opened his mouth, but stopped when Jaina cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention. All eyes swung towards her, and she straightened her shoulders somewhat. “I called the meeting.”

His eyes roved over her from head to toe. “And who are you?”

“That’s my daughter,” Katherine answered before Jaina could speak. “Perhaps you remember her. Though the last time you would have seen her, she was about yea high.” She held a hand up to her waist to indicate Jaina’s height as a child.

Some dark expression flickered across Alfred’s face. “The child you sent to be raised by those wood savages?”

Sylvanas could see Jaina’s jaw tighten, though she said nothing in reply. 

“The very same,” Katherine murmured into her cup of tea. “I’ve named her my Heir.” 

"If you really expect me to vote for a Drust witch, then -!"

"I don't," Jaina interrupted him. "In fact I fully expect for you to vote against me, and lose anyway. I have already secured a majority. You are only here as a courtesy."

His face went pale, then red, then an unpleasant shade of purple. He rounded on Lady Ashvane. "If you'd just listened to my proposal, then we never would have been in this situation."

Priscilla's lip curled, and she snapped, "Oh, go hang yourself, Alfred."

“Well,” said Lucille. “This is getting off to a wonderful start. Shall we go in?” 

“Please,” Katherine sighed, setting aside her finished cup and saucer onto the butler’s silver tray.

Two Proudmoore guardsmen flanking the large double doors to the audience chamber moved to push the doors open. The old hinges groaned beneath the weight. Still bickering, Priscilla, Alfred, Lucille and Katherine began walking inside. The Tidesages did not follow after their master, instead taking up residence in the shadows of a corner of the hallway to mutter amongst themselves quietly, their murmurs like the lap of waves against the shore. 

Jaina took a step after the others, then paused. She turned to Sylvanas and said, “I’m afraid outsiders are not permitted to watch the proceedings. You may wait outside if you wish.” 

“I think I would prefer to change into some dry clothes,” Sylvanas replied. 

“I am green with envy.” 

From inside the audience chamber, raised voices could be heard. Jaina winced. Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder to see what was going on. It appeared that Alfred and Priscilla were already getting into a heated argument, while Lucille was mournfully gazing into her empty cup of tea, and Katherine rubbed wearily at her brow. 

Jaina made a face, scrunching up her nose. “I’m going to be here a while. I don’t suppose you would make a distraction for me, so I can flee back to the Crimson Forest?” 

“And ruin all my hard work?” 

“You’re evil.” 

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.” Turning on her heel, Sylvanas gave a little wave over her shoulder. “Try not to have too much fun without me.” 

Behind her she could hear Jaina sigh.

* * *

The last time she had been in Proudmoore Keep, the butler had escorted her around with a leery glance at her weapons, as though she might attack its inhabitants. Now, warm quarters had been provided for her and her Rangers. They were a far cry from the sumptuous amenities of Silvermoon -- or even Dalaran, for that matter -- but they were some of the best Kul Tiras had to offer foreign dignitaries. 

Hours had passed. Night had washed over Boralus. And still the meeting of the Great Houses had not finished. Velonara was lounging on a couch with her feet up, filing her fingernails to be repainted. Anya sat at a table, practising sleight of hand tricks with coins and a well-worn deck of cards. Meanwhile, Nathanos paced before the fireplace. He would wear a ditch into the carpet before long. 

"You look troubled, Nathanos," Sylvanas remarked. Her fingers were laced behind her head, and she had her feet propped atop a cushioned footrest before a blazing hearth. For the first time in months, her clothes were completely dry. It felt like heaven.

"I wish I had your confidence," he said.

"You don't trust that they will open the borders to us?"

"All I know is that I have no idea what they are discussing in that chamber."

"Are you telling me you don't have spies in the room?" She tsked, tapping her tongue against the back of her teeth. "For shame."

"I tried," he growled, continuing to pace. "But there are two very powerful magic users inside. They don't want to be overheard."

“And they needn’t be.” When Nathanos opened his mouth to retort, she waved him away. “Relax. Or haven’t you realised yet?”

His pacing slowed. “Realise what?”

Sylvanas smiled, and her fangs glinted in the firelight. “We’ve won.” 

* * *

The ascension of the Lord Admiral's Heir demanded a ceremony before the citizenry of Boralus. Sylvanas kept out of the way during the preparations. Servants and guardsmen scurried about in Proudmoore livery, ordered to and fro by Katherine, who barked commands as though she were back on a flagship. Though she was not the only one to be kept busy. More than once, Sylvanas could spy Lucille fussing over decorations and ledgers. Apparently there was to be a large dinner at the Keep after the ceremony itself. More like a military ball than anything else. 

Lucille had even personally delivered an invitation written in her own flawless hand. Sylvanas had turned the cream-coloured cardstock over between her fingers before tossing it into the fireplace. She would have to attend, of course. It wouldn’t do to snub her new allies by not making her appearances. Especially not when everyone of name and worth in the city was going to be in attendance. 

If Lucille was put out by the way Sylvanas had discarded the invitation she did not show it. “There is a dress code,” she said. “Formal military, if you please.” 

In answer, Sylvanas gestured to her current armoured outfit. 

“Oh. Hmm.” Lucille reached out and touched one of the spikes on Sylvanas’ pauldron. “I don’t suppose you have anything a little less...er….lugubrious?” 

Sylvanas gave her a flat look and said, “No.” 

“Right. Of course. Would you mind if I sent over my tailor? She can whip something up for you in a jiffy. She is really very good, and I think a Kul Tiran tailcoat would look very fine on you indeed.” 

_ “No.”  _

"But -!"

In the end, Sylvanas had to all but steer Lucille towards the door to get her out of her private quarters in the Keep. And to think that only just a few months ago Lucille had been too afraid of her to step foot in her personal space alone. 

“She’s right, you know,” Anya said from a chair by the hearth once Sylvanas had slammed the door shut behind Lucille. 

“About what?” 

“You would look good in a Kul Tiran tailcoat. And they’re very comfortable.”

“Not you, too, Anya.” 

Anya only shrugged. “Velonara made me get one with her.”

Aiming a glare at the two of them, Sylvanas said, “Wear what you like, but I shall be representing the Horde as Warchief.” 

At that, Velonara’s expression turned dubious. She shared a silent meaningful look with Anya, who shrugged and mouthed,  _ “I tried.” _

“All right. I am leaving.” Sylvanas tugged the door back open and stalked out. 

It was a winding walk through the draughty halls of the Keep to reach Jaina’s personal quarters. A guard was stationed outside. He kept stealing nervous looks at the enormous bone and branch sabre cat that lounged just beside the door like a common house pet. Its tail twitched when Sylvanas strode forwards. 

Stopping before the door, Sylvanas spared Adalyn a glance before speaking to the guard. “Is she inside?”

The guard came to attention without needing to be prompted. “Lady Proudmoore is getting ready for the ceremony, ma’am. The Lord Admiral is with her.” 

“Oh?” Sylvanas’ ears cocked forward slightly. “I don’t hear any yelling.” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Then they won’t mind if I intrude. Unless someone else objects?” Sylvanas said, looking at Adalyn again. 

The cat yawned broadly, revealing fangs that could shred her to pieces, and Adalyn lowered her head back down to her crossed paws for a snooze. 

Wordlessly, the guard opened the door for her, and Sylvanas walked inside. The door shut softly behind her. As the Lord Admiral’s Heir, Jaina’s personal apartments were sprawling with multiple rooms. The sitting room was empty, though there was evidence that people had recently inhabited it. A fire was crackling in the hearth. Two empty cups of tea sat atop a table beside a teapot. The spout still steamed faintly. A silver spoon was turned over so that it leaned against the saucer. The tip of a quill was balanced in its well, and ink was still glistening and fresh on a small piece of paper.

Sylvanas could hear the faint murmur of voices through one of the doors leading to another chamber. On silent feet, she approached, but did not push the door open immediately. She leaned against the wall beside it and listened. 

“...and whatever you do: don’t lift the sword above shoulder-height.”

“I know, mother. We’ve been over this a hundred times, now.” 

There was a momentary pause, before Katherine continued softly. “Yes. Of course.” The sound of rustling fabric followed, and then Katherine said, “Here. Let me.” 

“You don’t have to -”

“But I would like to. Please.” 

Jaina gave no verbal answer. The soft whisper of fabric returned, and then Katherine said, “You should have told me sooner.”

“I didn’t want to make that conversation at Barrowknoll any worse than it already was.” 

“All the same. I would’ve liked to have known about this.”

“It’s nothing.” 

“Jaina, you  _ died.”  _

“You don’t have to remind me. I was there. No, don’t. Stop. Please.” Jaina drew in a deep shuddering breath. “It’s in the past. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” 

A sigh, and then the sound of uneven footsteps. “Well, you certainly look the part of Lord Admiral, in any case.” 

“That’s all I have at the moment,” Jaina grumbled. “Appearances.” 

“You will learn.” 

“Hmm.” 

“You are not alone. The Admiralty is not without its resources. And you have me, as well.” The gentle tap of Katherine’s cane joined the fray, and her voice drifted as though she were walking about the room. “I may not have much time left in this world, but what time I do have is yours.” 

“Thank you,” Jaina said softly.

Katherine made a wordless scoffing noise. “Don’t thank me, my dear. It really is the least I can do.”

Jaina lowered her voice, and Sylvanas strained to hear it.

“I see,” Katherine said. Then, she said very clearly, “You may come in now, Warchief. I was just leaving.” 

Before Sylvanas could even touch the handle however, the door swung inwards and Katherine began limping through it. 

“Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas greeted.

“You won’t be able to call me that for much longer,” Katherine drawled without pausing. “Just ‘Kath’ will do. But never in public, if you please.” 

Sylvanas wasn’t sure she would ever call her that, regardless of whether they were in private or not. For her part, Katherine did not give her the opportunity to respond. She was already heading towards the main exit, leaning heavily on her cane with every step. Sylvanas watched her go until the door shut behind her. Then, she glanced into the room beyond. 

Jaina’s bedroom looked like any other bedroom in the Keep. There were no personal touches to it, as though she hardly spent any time here apart from what daily sleep her body required. The four-poster bed was ornately carved and canopied with green drapes. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed. A large wooden wardrobe was open, revealing a panoply of military clothes that could have belonged to any high-ranking Naval officer. 

Jaina herself stood before a narrow, full length, silver-backed mirror. She was tying a white silk cravat around her neck, except this time she was actually accomplishing the feat.

“The only good thing about being back here,” Jaina said while still studying the movement of her hands in the mirror, “is that I can ask a valet to teach me how to tie one of these wretched things.” 

“I see they’ve succeeded,” Sylvanas said. She stopped by the bed, crossing her arms and leaning her shoulder against one of the carved pillars. 

Jaina huffed with self-deprecating laughter. “Barely.” She continued fiddling with the cravat, tucking the ends away just so into her waistcoat. Her greatcoat was draped across the mattress beside Sylvanas alongside her gloves. "This all feels like it's moving so fast. Weren't we just fighting in Drustvar?"

"Three weeks ago."

"Like I said. Fast."

"Would you prefer to keep fighting?"

"Of course not." Jaina had finished with the cravat and now smoothed her hands down the front of her waistcoat. "I do wish I could vanish back to my little cabin, though. Life was simpler as the High Thornspeaker."

Sylvanas cocked her head to the side. “Is that a title you will retain?” 

“It is. Though I will be ceding many of my duties to the other Thornspeakers. I am not giving them up by becoming Lord Admiral. I am - I am ensuring their future.”

She sounded firm, like she was trying to convince herself. 

Without responding, Sylvanas continued to watch the way Jaina nervously fiddled with her clothing. Then she picked up the greatcoat from the bed and approached, holding the article of clothing up so that Jaina could slip her arms into it and shrug it into place over her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Jaina said. She straightened the lapels of her greatcoat, but her hands slowed, and then stopped. For a long silent moment, she stared at her reflection in the long mirror, her face going strangely slack. 

When Jaina continued to stare and not speak, Sylvanas asked, “Is everything all right?” 

"I've - I’ve dreamed of this moment," she breathed.

"Really?" Sylvanas said dryly. "Because you certainly fought against it long enough."

"No. I mean: I've _Dreamed_ of this moment."

It was only then that Sylvanas noticed the trembling in Jaina's fingers. Her shoulders were beginning to shake. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide, gazing at herself in horror. Her breaths grew rapid, turning into short sharp gasps.

Startled, Sylvanas reached out. The moment she touched Jaina's shoulder, the tension in the air went sharp as a whip and the mirror cracked. Jaina flinched. A long jagged line now ran down a section of the glass, exactly mirroring the scar down her cheek.

Shaking her head, unable to look away and slowly stumbling back a step, Jaina mumbled, "No, no, no, no, no -"

Sylvanas opened her mouth to speak, but froze when she caught sight of the mirror. Jaina’s reflection did not match. In the mirror, she still wore her Naval uniform, but there was a sword through her chest. She was bound and gagged, her face a bloodied mess, her eye gouged out, dangling by a rope from her neck. Sylvanas blinked, and the image was gone, replaced by a completely normal reflection once more. 

Beside her, Jaina was panting now. Her hands flew to her throat. She started tugging at the cravat, ripping it free and gasping as though struggling to breathe. Sylvanas tried to manoeuvre herself into Jaina's sight, stepping between her and the mirror so she could not look at herself again. Wary, she reached out and gently grasped Jaina’s shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm. “You are awake. You are alive and you are safe.”

Jaina flinched. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Sylvanas asked.

Immediately and fervently Jaina shook her head. She grabbed hold of Sylvanas’ arms as if afraid she might go anyway. 

“All right,” Sylvanas murmured. “I will stay.” 

Jaina’s breathing still came short and harsh and fast. Her fingers dug into Sylvanas’ forearms, clinging to her as though she were the only thing keeping her afloat. The cravat was a mess of silk hanging around her neck like a noose that had not yet been tightened, revealing the ropey scar tissue of her throat, bracketed by her high collar. 

After a few minutes where the only noise in the room was Jaina’s sharp gasps for breath, Sylvanas said idly, “You know, Lucille wants me to wear a tailcoat to this military ball you’re throwing tonight. She was very adamant, but I think I would rather die a fourth time than wear that drab. What do you think?” 

Jaina had hung her head, and now she lifted it to blink at Sylvanas in muddled confusion.

Sylvanas gave Jaina’s shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Shall we show them what it means to have real taste? You can wear the deer skull, and I, the foreign armour with spikes. We will be the scandal of the capital on your first day as Lord Admiral.”

At that Jaina gave a weak huff of laughter. She nodded, closing her eyes and trying to take a deeper breath. Her pulse was a rapid rhythm at her neck, fluttering beneath the skin, but her breathing began to slow. Finally she managed to say, “Keep talking.” 

“Now, that is an invitation you are going to regret.” 

Sylvanas spoke. She kept the topics inane and rambling. The latest news from Durotar. Some juicy outdated gossip about a few of the noble families at the old court of Silvermoon. A humorous war story about a lance corporal who was literally caught with his pants around his ankles during a night exercise. The last was a tale she had always reserved for dinner parties to make the more uptight people in the room laugh and relax. She hadn’t needed to employ it for years.

Jaina wasn’t smiling though. Over the last few minutes she had gotten her breathing under control. She swallowed thickly and rasped, "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can."

Jaina shook her head. She was staring down at their feet. "No. No, I'm going to be bad for Kul Tiras. These people deserve better than me. I can't. I'm not the right person."

"There is no other person,” Sylvanas insisted. "And you know what is bad for Kul Tiras? More conflict. More fighting. More death. You have already stopped that."

"I will make it worse again. I know I will. I've seen it."

"The ceremony is in just a few hours. They are waiting for you. They want you. They don't want someone else."

But Jaina's voice was watery and weak, like she was choking on the words. "I can't. I'm not - I'm not Derek. I'm not Tandred. I'm not good. Not like them."

"Look at me. Jaina."

When she did not respond, Sylvanas grasped Jaina's chin and nudged her face up so that she was forced to look at her. Jaina's cheeks were wet, her eyes red-rimmed and frightened. 

"No, you're not going to be good. You are going to be  _ great," _ Sylvanas said vehemently. "I have seen it. Not in a dream. Damn the Dream. I have seen it here. In this life. The place where it matters. And I know it to be true."

Jaina was staring at her with wide eyes, utterly silent. It was only after she had finished speaking that Sylvanas realised she was cupping Jaina's face in both hands, tenderly stroking her thumb over one cheek. She tried to let go and step away, but Jaina slipped a hand to the back of her neck and tugged her gently forward. 

It was not at all the kiss Sylvanas had expected. Jaina’s mouth was soft and warm, and even a touch fearful. As though she wanted something to ground her, and this was the only thing she could think of doing.

Though Sylvanas would have been lying if she’d said she hadn’t thought of doing this before. Perhaps back at camp, or in that cosy cliffside cabin. When Jaina still did not know how to tie a cravat. When Jaina hadn’t been desperate and crying just moments ago.

Jaina broke the kiss but her hand remained on the back of Sylvanas’ neck. “I wish we hadn’t done that.”

“Why?” Sylvanas murmured. “Did you not want to?”

“No. I did.” They were still close enough that the words ghosted across Jaina’s mouth. Her eyes flickered down and she swayed forward. Sylvanas tilted her head to the side, but Jaina stopped before they could kiss again. Jaina bit at her own lower lip and said, “That’s what’s going to make this next part harder.” 

Moving her hands, Sylvanas smoothed down the lapels of Jaina’s greatcoat so that they rested flush against her collar. “I know I gave you some advice about your personal wants and the needs of your nation -”

Jaina chuckled weakly. “It was more of a speech, really.”

“A fantastic speech, I might add.”

“It was very poignant, if I recall,” Jaina agreed.

“I have had many years to practice. Just as you will.” Sylvanas could not justify keeping her hands on Jaina any longer -- her greatcoat was sharp and pristine -- but she let her touch linger nonetheless. “Kul Tiras cannot expect you to be a spinster.” 

“No. I imagine not. In fact, I think they’d want me to produce an Heir as quickly as possible.”

“I’m not sure I can help you there,” said Sylvanas dryly. 

Jaina’s answering laugh was exhausted. She shook her head. “Unfortunately for them, they’ll be waiting a good long while for anything like that.” 

Sylvanas toyed with a burnished button bearing a fouled anchor. “In which case, we are free to entertain ourselves in the meantime.” 

Jaina was watching her intently, as though trying to scour her face to memory. Her eyes dropped to Sylvanas’ mouth and fixed there. Her fingertips traced a hesitant line across the nape of Sylvanas’ neck. “I don’t think you’ll want me after I -” 

With a soft tug at the lapels of her greatcoat, Sylvanas brought their mouths together again. Jaina made a small noise into the kiss when Sylvanas lightly traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. Any hesitation vanished, and suddenly Jaina was gripping her close, one hand at Sylvanas’ hip, the other bunched in her long ashen hair. 

Sylvanas had to remind herself to take care, to not rumple Jaina’s outfit or her hair overly much. It was more difficult than it should have been. The slight brushes of Jaina’s skin against her fingertips burned like the noonday sun of her homeland, and the only thing Sylvanas could think of was wanting to reveal more of it, her hands already slipping beneath the greatcoat and settling on the warmth of Jaina’s sides. A heady sensation rushed sluggishly through her, and it took her a moment to give it a name -- it had been far too long since Sylvanas had felt desire like this. Years. Now, it prickled at the base of her spine, crawling up her back as Jaina held her closer. 

Slightly breathless, Jaina broke away. Her hand tightened for a moment and something flickered across her face. After a split second of hesitation however, Jaina stepped back, swallowing thickly. “I really ought to finish getting ready. Can we meet here after? We should talk." She gestured between the two of them. "About this. And other things."

Sylvanas nodded. "I will return here before the ball. We’ll talk."

* * *

A crowd was gathered on the main docks of the harbour. Banners of all the Great Houses swung in an icy breeze, most prominent among them the green flag bearing the anchor of the Admiralty. Citizens of every stripe huddled together, the gentry rubbing elbows with dockworkers and fullers from Dampwick Ward, finely clothed merchants and ash-streaked farriers, their leather belts draped with rasps and large pliers, fishermen and stevedores with the collars of their worn coats turned up against the chill. 

Sylvanas stood well in the back. She did not bother trying to get closer, preferring to remain out of sight, lingering in the shade of a shop awning, which had been abandoned by its owner in favour of watching the ceremony. A sleek frigate was anchored and lashed at the docks. The name  _ ‘Restoration’  _ was emblazoned across its stern in gold. It was not, so Sylvanas had been informed, a flagship, but it was a perfectly serviceable first-rate. Which, of course, meant it was massive beyond compare, a veritable floating barracks filled to bursting with sailors, marines, and enough gunpowder and shot to blow away a small city. 

She did not take her eyes off the ship. Officers stood at attention in their glittering finery, while five figures were arrayed before them. Even had Sylvanas not known who they were, their silhouettes were impossible to misrepresent. Each of the leaders of the Great Houses and Jaina Proudmoore in the very middle of them all, like the focal point of an old painting.

This was not a ship blessing ceremony, but it felt exactly like the one Sylvanas had attended almost exactly a year ago in this very city. The only thing that was missing was the rain. For once, Boralus was merely overcast, pale watery sunlight shunting through a part in the clouds and illuminating the vast stretches of canvas sails. 

For all Jaina’s hesitation at the Keep, she stood straight-backed as a pillar now. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her pale hair stark against the dark fabric of her military greatcoat. Beside her, Katherine had a ceremonial sword buckled at her waist, and in a smooth motion she drew it, her gloved hand clenched around the wire-wrapt hilt. She passed the blade to Jaina, who took it without a word. When Jaina held the sword out before her, Lucille was the first to step forward. 

Lucille’s words were loud and clear, carrying across the docks as the onlookers watched in a silence broken only by the whistle of the wind and the creaking planks of the ship. “I, Lady Lucille Waycrest, head of House Waycrest, do truly and sincerely acknowledge, profess, testify, and declare in my conscience before the Tides and the world, that Jaina Proudmoore is the lawful and rightful Lord Admiral of the realm of Kul Tiras. I swear that I will well and truly serve the office of the Lord Admiral, and I will do right to all manner of people after the laws and usages of this realm, without fear or favour, affection or ill will. And I do make this recognition heartily, willingly, and truly, upon the Tides.”

After speaking she leaned down in a low bow and kissed the flat of the blade held before her. She stepped back, and Lord Stormsong stepped forward in her place. The same words and rituals were repeated by each of them, ending with Katherine.

Everyone on the docks seemed utterly rapt by this ceremony. Sylvanas tuned out the repetition after the second time they were said. She was too busy studying how striking a figure Jaina cut atop the stern of the ship. She was still thinking about resuming that kiss from earlier -- hopefully with  _ less  _ crying and self-loathing this time -- when she realised Jaina had pulled out a small folded piece of parchment and had started to give a speech.

“...a long road lies before us,” she was saying, her voice carrying too clearly across the chilly air. She must have been amplifying her words with a subtle spell. “And I know that I am not the leader you expected. And though you have had and will have many wiser and stronger Lord Admirals, you never had nor will you ever have one as grateful or as dedicated. There is nothing I hold in higher regard than the well-being of Kul Tiras and its people. Everything I do henceforth will be for you and you alone. This I swear.

“The times shift as the Tides, and in the shadow of adversity all we can hope to do is steer a course that sees us safe and victorious. Which is why, for my first act as Lord Admiral, I will ensure that this nation is a safe harbour for everyone.”

As Jaina continued to speak, Sylvanas could feel a satisfied smirk pull at the corner of her mouth. She did nothing to quell it. 

“Effective immediately as voted by the Great Houses, Kul Tiras will open its borders,” Jaina said. “No longer will we drown in our isolation beyond the waves, and instead we will become greater than we ever were alone. I have struck favourable deals with representatives abroad from both the Horde and the Alliance, which will make Kul Tiras a haven to all.”

It took a moment for that statement to register. Slowly, Sylvanas uncrossed her arms and stood straighter as she digested the words. The smile slipped from her face and she hissed, _ “What?” _

Jaina was still talking. She addressed the crowd, refusing to look in Sylvanas’ direction. With every word, the sensation of icy horror gripped at her stomach like a clenched fist. Standing there -- anger rising to rage, then to some ineffable emotion that sang in her jaws -- Sylvanas finally realised that she had been played. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unofficially titled: "How to Piss Off Sylvanas Windrunner 101 by Jaina Proudmoore"
> 
> ADDENDUM: while I appreciate that a lot of people feel very strongly about this chapter (that of course being the intention behind the twist), I am wary as well after receiving a few comments about it.
> 
> This is not a black and white "X is wrong and Y is right" kind of story. That people feel very defensive of Sylvanas is understandable. We've just spent over 90k words in her head. I am glad people feel Some Kind of Way about the situation. I wanted that.
> 
> I only ask that everyone remain respectful to one another in the comments. I will continue to moderate, if needed.
> 
> All the best.
> 
> -Roman


	6. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter was particularly difficult for me to write. In the end I cut quite a few scenes because it was all getting away from me and was just too much.
> 
> Thank you all for joining me. This story was one I have been wanting to write for a while, but I am glad it’s finished.

One of the problems with seeing the future was that it never quite happened the way she expected. And that even when it did, she couldn't just tell people. Nobody would believe her, and even if they did it would only make things worse. But she tried. Many times. Oh, how she tried.

"I can explain."

Jaina hadn’t expected Sylvanas to actually come back. It wouldn’t have surprised her if Sylvanas had stormed off after her speech at the Admiralty ascension ceremony, and only returned with a fleet of Zandalari warships. Jaina had hoped Sylvanas would come back, and also dreaded it. Perhaps a horizon filled with Zandalari sails trailing Horde flags wouldn’t have been so bad. Surely it must have been better than this, this stone sinking in her stomach, eating away at her gut until she felt sick. 

But here Sylvanas was restlessly, furiously pacing Tandred’s bedroom, which had been given to Jaina upon her return to Boralus. A room Jaina had not seen since she was a child, but which had not changed a whit in her absence, so that evidence of her brother still lingered here and there in the room’s trappings and belongings. Somehow, it made the whole situation that much more unbearable. 

“I don’t want your explanations.” Sylvanas’ voice echoed more than usual. When she paced, shadows writhed in her footsteps. "After all I have done for you," she hissed.

"I know you are angry with me, but please listen to -" Jaina began.

"I am more than angry. I am  _ incandescent."  _ The word seemed to slither like a living thing when Sylvanas said it, as though her voice had a life of its own, which champed at the bit, clamouring to be set free. Her hands were clenched into fists, as though she wished she were gripping a weapon rather than empty air. “Who was it?” she demanded. “Who approached you from the Alliance? Was it Greymane?”

“Why do you think they’re the ones who approached me?” __

An expression of shock crossed Sylvanas’ face, followed by confusion, realisation, and finally a seething anger. “You -!” She seemed to choke on the words boiling up in her mouth. “You sought them out? Who? Who did you approach?” 

Shaking her head, Jaina asked, “Does it really matter who?” 

_ “Tell me,”  _ Sylvanas snarled. “You owe me that, at least.”

Jaina pinched the bridge of her nose. She had stripped the gloves from her hands the moment she had stepped from the first-rate, nervously tugging at them as she had made her way back to Proudmoore Keep after she had lost sight of Sylvanas in the crowd. Now the gloves were tucked into the pocket of her greatcoat, which she had slung across the bed when she had entered the room and found it empty. Sylvanas had burst into the room not long later, fury painted across every line of her as though ready to greet her with knives. Or arrows, more likely. 

“If you must know,” Jaina finally said, “it was King Anduin Wrynn.”

A dark and ugly expression flashed across Sylvanas’ face. “You deceived me -” she said, her voice shaking with the force of her anger. “- to make a deal with the incompetent little  _ boy king?”  _

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Jaina straightened. She had a vague hope that her height would help her feel better about the situation somehow -- bolder, maybe, more anchored -- but it didn’t. Not when Sylvanas was looking at her like that. 

So, Jaina swallowed and said simply, “Yes.”

Normally there was a stillness about Sylvanas. As though she had to remind herself to move, to feign small gestures that the living would do without thought or meaning. Now however, she seemed barely able to contain herself, like she was trying to lock away something in her chest that was battering down her ribs. There was not much light in the room, but Sylvanas cast a long dark shadow regardless. It flickered, tendrils snaking outward along the floor.

“When did this happen?” Sylvanas asked. 

“I thought you didn’t want my explanation.” 

Sylvanas shot her a baleful glare and repeated,  _ “When?” _

Jaina wanted to wring her hands. She wanted to grovel, to beg to be allowed to explain, but she knew she would be denied that, no matter how much she tried, no matter how much she wanted it. So, instead she said, “I spoke with him before you and I ever signed anything. Not that it matters.” 

“It matters. It matters a great deal.”

“Why?” Jaina asked. “So you can go back to Kalimdor and officially declare war upon Kul Tiras?”

Sylvanas continued to stalk the room, like a lion pacing its cage, or perhaps something more deadly. “I had considered it, yes. And I would be fully justified. The rest of the Horde would support me in a heartbeat.”

“But you won’t. You have too much to lose. You won’t throw that all away.”

“You don’t know me,” Sylvanas hissed. 

“I do, though.” Suddenly Jaina was very tired. All day she had been standing. Her feet ached. Her back ached. Her chest ached. She sank down onto the edge of the bed, her weight sinking into the feather mattress. “There are so many times you could have put the screws to me, and you didn’t. Not out of the goodness of your heart -- I’m not delusional -- but because it didn’t benefit you enough. Because you thought my trust was worth more than whatever else it was you had to gain.” 

Sylvanas did not answer. Her footsteps were soft whispers against the floor as she paced.

Briefly Jaina’s hands grasped at the bedsheets before she smoothed out the cloth between her fingers. “I know you, Sylvanas. And you know me.” 

“I do not. I thought I did, but you have defied every expectation I have of you throughout our time together. Even now I don’t know you at all. You are a - a -” 

And here Sylvanas spat a word in her native tongue. It took a moment for Jaina to mentally switch and translate; her Thalassian was bookish at best and rusty at worst.  _ ‘Stranger,’  _ but with a particularly negative connotation. A person who one might pass on the street, but never even wish to engage in conversation. Worse than an enemy. At least one wanted to know their enemies.

Swallowing past an obstruction in her throat, Jaina took a moment to compose herself before she asked, "Don't you even want to know what sort of deal I've struck with them?"

But Sylvanas waved that notion away with a sharp gesture, as though her hands were knives and she were slicing Jaina’s words from the air. "Anything is too much. A single copper piece is too much."

"I'm not talking about what I gave them. I'm talking about what they gave me."

Sylvanas bared her teeth and snarled, "They could have given you twice as many soldiers and munitions and money as I did, and it still wouldn't matter."

"You were the one who told me that you didn't care for pointless faction wars.”

“This has nothing to do with that,” Sylvanas said darkly.

Jaina scoffed. “Of course, not. You just don’t like losing.” 

“My people bled for you! They died for you! And this is how they are repaid?”

“I never wanted that!”

“No, but you agreed to it!”

“Because  _ you  _ wanted it!” Jaina shouted. She couldn’t deny that she was shouting now, that this was a yelling match she couldn’t possibly win. She stood, pushing herself up from the bed and pointing at Sylvanas for emphasis. “You wanted me indebted to you! Every gold coin! Every dead Horde member! All of them benefitted you! They were fodder for your gains! And now all that rests on  _ my _ shoulders? It’s all  _ my  _ fault?”

If anything Sylvanas appeared satisfied that Jaina's anger was getting the better of her. As though a fight was exactly what she had sought when she entered these rooms. Her eyes blazed and she said, “We had a deal!”

“Yes! We do! And I will honour that deal to the letter!” 

“This is not what we agreed!”

“I think you’ll find it is. I always said I would open the borders my own way. I always said you wouldn’t have exclusive rights. You were there! You watched me make the change to the treaty! You had it witnessed!”

“Nothing in that treaty excuses this - this gross breach of my trust!”

“Don’t try resting on law or morality! You and I both know that’s a farce! If that piece of paper inconvenienced you in any way, you would be the first to rip it up!”

“But you wouldn’t. No, you’re far more wedded to the letter of the law.” Sylvanas’ eyes were hypnotic. It was only then that Jaina realised Sylvanas had not blinked since she had entered the room. Her voice was a thundercloud, fierce and dark and threatening. “I can bring troops here. I can build bases. I can expand trade routes. I can make your life a living hell.” 

“Actually, you can’t.” Lifting her chin and squaring her jaw, Jaina said, “If you look back at the document, you’ll find that this was never a true alliance, but a promise of support by way of funds, troops, supplies, and what have you. And in exchange I would allow you open borders. Which I have done. I have always, without fail, done exactly what I told you I would do. I never lied. I gave you that courtesy, even when you did not reciprocate.” 

"So, we’re talking about reciprocity, now?” Sylvanas stopped before her. She was close enough to touch but never before had Jaina known her to look as distant as she did now, as icy and livid. “And kissing me? Was that all a part of your plan as well?"

Jaina's blood ran cold. "What? No!" she said. "You were the one who told me I needed to set aside my own wants and needs for the good of the state. And kissing you was not - I didn’t plan any of that. Please, know that. Over time, I saw what kind of person you were really like. A person to be feared, yes, but also admired and respected."

"You respect me so much you put a knife in my back?"

"That's not -!" Jaina stamped a foot on the ground in frustration. "Why does everyone keep thinking this is some kind of zero sum game?"

"Because it is! You’re not that naive! Don’t tell me that after all this time you threw everything away for idealism!” 

“I didn’t,” Jaina growled. She could feel her own temper rising, and could do nothing to stop it despite her best efforts. A year of war and she was exhausted. Too tired by far. And it were as though Sylvanas’ anger were an infection spreading throughout the room like the black tendrils that slithered in her wake. 

“Then, what has the Alliance given you? Hmm?” Sylvanas watched her unblinkingly. “What have they ever done for Kul Tiras? I had to spend a year in Drustvar, feeding you troops and gold for the sake of this nation! And they just get to benefit from that?”

_ “Had to?”  _ Jaina repeated. “You didn’t ‘have’ to do anything! You came looking for me! You kept offering me troops and gold with the full expectation that you would get something in return! Don’t you dare act like I forced you into this, and then led you down the garden path!”

“How am I supposed to believe you after this? You said you reached out to the boy king before you ever signed an agreement with me! Why shouldn’t I believe that this was what you wanted all along? To play me for a fool! To take and take and then spit in my face!"

“What I wanted -” Jaina ground out between her teeth “- was to be left alone! But people like us can’t afford to lead simple lives!”

Sylvanas laughed, and it was an ugly sound. “Heaven only knows what you want!” 

“This isn’t about what I want! This has never been about what I want! It’s always been about what  _ you  _ want! What Kul Tiras wants! What everybody else wants from me!” Jaina burst out. The words ran ragged from her, as though yanked on the end of a chain. “If this was about what I wanted, then I never would have been here in the first place! You were the one who sought me out! You came into the Crimson Forest! You hounded me for weeks! You dragged me into this! Well, congratulations, Sylvanas! I  _ am _ the Lord Admiral now!” She held her arms open wide, gesturing to herself in her full Naval uniform. “This is what you wanted! So, this is what you get!”

The silence that fell following Jaina’s exclamation was ringing. It seemed to buzz along the walls and the ends of her fingertips. She could feel it build up in her chest like the inhalation of poisonous fumes. Sylvanas was staring at her with an expression of such loathing that it made Jaina’s stomach turn. She’d never looked at her like that before. With anger, perhaps -- frustration, exasperation -- but not this. 

“That’s it?” Sylvanas asked, and her voice was so soft it felt somehow worse than shouting. “Not even an apology? You can’t be bothered to stoop so low?” 

Her hands back at her sides, clenched into fists, Jaina said, “If there is one thing I will not apologise for, it’s doing the right thing for my people. I stand by it. Even if I hate it. Even if I wish I could have done it differently.”

Sylvanas’ lip curled. Her eyes roved up and down, as though taking inventory of Jaina’s outfit. Then she said, “You sound just like your mother. The resemblance is uncanny.” 

Jaina felt like she'd been slapped. Or punched in the gut. Or maybe both. She opened her mouth to say something in reply, but nothing came. 

Something like a smirk of vicious triumph pulled at the corner of Sylvanas’ mouth. She reached out and Jaina flinched instinctively, but Sylvanas only tugged gently at the cravat so that it was once again tight against her throat. Even through the layers of silk, her touch was cold as the grave.

"You have a ball to prepare for, Lord Admiral," she murmured. "I’ll not trouble you any further.”

And then she whirled about on her heel, and stalked out of the room. The door leading to the hallway slammed shut behind her.

Dazed, Jaina watched her go. When she turned back to the room, the mirror seemed to be waiting for her. Her reflection stared back at her, broken and bloodied, swaying gently in an ocean breeze. And from a great distance she could have sworn she heard the haunting echo of Gorak Tul’s laughter. 

The sound was muffled, as though through layers of cloth, or perhaps from six feet buried beneath the ground. She turned to a travelling trunk that had been brought with her from Drustvar and placed at the foot of her bed. A large lock of cold wrought iron kept the trunk firmly shut, guarding against any intruders. She hadn't opened it since arriving. She hadn't needed to. 

“Stop it,” Jaina said.

The laughter grew louder, more substantial, forming into a physical thing. 

"Stop it!" 

Jaina threw a pillow at the trunk, and the laughter abruptly stopped.

* * *

When she had hung from the great tree, caught in an eternal stasis of both dead and dying, Gorak Tul had shown her fragments of the future. Like shards of broken pottery. None of them remotely resembled the whole, so that even now she was left scrambling to reconstruct how every shattered piece fit together. 

Sometimes they would creep up on her in moments of unshakable familiarity. Like a half remembered dream that pantomimed the real world. Sometimes they would strike her very suddenly. She would glance up and be hit with a scene she had witnessed years ago, when her vision was a blood-dimmed tide and she had not drawn breath for days unending.

Now, walking into the great hall of Proudmoore Keep was the latter. The scene was so vivid in her memory that she had to choke back a gag reflex.

The music was cheerful. It was the latest waltz being played by a string quartet from the upper balcony of the hall. The waltz was only composed earlier this year by a prized musician from Boralus, yet Jaina could remember this song from her time in Thros. The first few notes of it made her blood run cold, sending her spiraling back until the cravat around her neck felt like a noose.

She shook her head and calmed her breathing. Not now. Not here. She could fall apart later. 

People were gathered around the hall, chatting idly amongst themselves. A few stray laughs mingled with the notes of music. Perched on the banister of the mezzanine was Arthur in his preferred form of a great raven. He was bobbing his head up and down to the music like a metronome. Every now and then the conductor would shoot him a puzzled glance and try to shoo him away. 

The hall was bright and warmly lit. Or as bright and warm as Proudmoore Keep could be. A great many dignitaries and nobles from Kul Tiras and abroad had gathered to celebrate her ascension ceremony. She could vaguely recall reading through the long list her mother and Lucille had put together for this occasion. Jaina had only gotten past the first page before she gave up on trying to memorise every name. 

The conversation continued even when she entered the hall. People smiled, bowed, or curtsied as Jaina passed by, only to return to their social pleasantries. Even so, she could feel every gaze upon her. She swallowed and had to tamp down the urge to tug at the cravat. It felt too tight, even though she knew it wasn't. 

Her mother limped towards her, straight backed despite the cane. "You're here early. We weren't expecting you to make an entrance for another half hour at least."

"I don't want any more fanfare," said Jaina.

It was not a lie, exactly. She simply omitted the fact that she couldn't stand another second of being alone in her dead brother's quarters.

Katherine frowned at her. “Are you quite all right, my dear? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” Jaina said.

All right.  _ That _ was a lie.

"Hmm," said Katherine, clearly unconvinced. 

"I'm going to start making my rounds," Jaina said. "Unless I'm not allowed to do that, either."

"Don't be daft. Go. Mingle." Her mother waved her away, but then lowered her voice and said conspiratorially, "Though, you might want to have a chat with our mutual friend from the Horde."

Jaina felt a chill race down her spine even at the insinuation of Sylvanas. Only a few hours had passed since their fight. Her stomach was still trying to twist itself into knots at the memory. "Why? What has she done?"

Katherine gave her a funny look. "Nothing. She's over there in the corner, brooding. She's very good at brooding, I might add. Especially in that outfit. It's making a few of the gentry a bit nervous."

The fact that Sylvanas had come at all was a shock. Jaina straightened and searched over the crowd for the sight of her. True to Katherine's word, Sylvanas stood in a far corner beneath the musician's mezzanine balcony, as far away from the light as she could possibly be. She was flanked by Anya and Nathanos, both of whom had donned local formal wear. Far from taking up Lucille's offer of a Kul Tiran tailcoat, Sylvanas was resplendent in a new set of gleaming armour that she must have brought with her from Orgrimmar or perhaps the Undercity. It was certainly necromantic in theme. A cape dyed a rich dark royal purple was draped from her shoulders, but in place of her normal hood, her pale hair had been swept back from her angular face. 

Somehow she appeared both the same as she always did, and different. Like she had been distilled. Made more herself than ever.

As though she could feel Jaina's gaze upon her, Sylvanas' sharp eyes snapped towards her over the heads of the crowd. She glowered. Jaina had to hold back a grimace. 

Katherine hadn’t noticed the silent exchange. “I tried speaking to her myself earlier,” she mused, tapping her fingers thoughtfully against the silver head of her cane. “But she was rather short with me. More so than usual, I mean.” 

“Yes, well,” Jaina cleared her throat. “I may have failed to inform her of the vote passed by the Admiralty and the Great Houses the other day.” 

Katherine’s eyes widened. “Oh, Jaina. You didn’t.”

“It never came up naturally, and I didn’t know how to just -- please don’t look at me like that, mother. I'm doing my best here.” 

“So, you mean to tell me that the first time she had any inkling about all of this was during your speech?”

“No!” Jaina said, then lowered her voice to a rushed whisper when a few people looked over in her direction. “I was very clear about my intentions from the beginning, thank you very much.”

“Apparently not clear enough. And I don’t think our dear Warchief is used to being beaten at her own game. She doesn’t strike me as the type to take this lying down.” For a moment Katherine paused and then added, “Though I suppose that depends on what we mean by  _ ‘lying down.’” _

“Oh, for the love of -! Who do I have to kill for a glass of whiskey around here?” Jaina muttered half to herself, glancing around for a liveried waiter. 

“This explains a lot over the last few days. I was pleasantly surprised she had taken the news of the Alliance so well. Now, I know she hadn't the foggiest idea about the whole thing.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jaina grumbled.

By some miracle, Jaina managed to convince someone to get a glass of whiskey. The glass was cool in her hand. She could feel it through the fabric of her gloves, and wished she could loosen the cloth around her neck. This outfit was meant to weather the storms of the northern seas, and Proudmoore Keep was not normally this warm. The heat was suffocating. 

Upon her second sip at the glass, Jaina glanced around the room and nearly choked. There near the banquet table, surrounded by Kul Tiran nobility, stood His Majesty Anduin Wrynn. He was smiling somewhat nervously, doing his best to entertain a swarm of foreign nobles vying for his attention. The people around him positively buzzed, jostling one another to get a little closer to the High King of Stormwind, many hopefuls trying to make a lasting impression. 

In stark contrast, nobody dared approach Sylvanas in her shadowy corner. 

Squeezing her eyes shut, Jaina couldn't hold back a groan. She pressed the cool glass against her forehead, as though trying to hide behind it. "When did he arrive? Why does nobody tell me anything?"

"I was wondering when you would notice that," Katherine remarked dryly.

"Just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse," Jaina sighed. She lowered the glass and took a deeper draught, relishing the burn of whiskey down her throat. 

"Buck up, my dear. The night is young, yet.”

Just then -- because apparently Jaina had the worst possible luck -- Anduin looked up through a gap in the crowd that had gathered around him. He caught Jaina’s eye and waved cheerily, already making his excuses and walking towards her. 

“Good luck,” Katherine said, then started to slip away.

“Don’t leave me!” Jaina hissed after her mother, but Katherine pretended not to have heard her.

When Anduin reached her, he bowed at the waist. She returned the gesture, if a bit more stiffly. She could feel Sylvanas’ gaze burning a hole into her back from across the great hall. 

“Lord Admiral,” said Anduin, straightening. “Thank you for receiving me. It is wonderful to be able to finally visit your country.” 

“And it’s wonderful to host you,” she replied blandly. She tried to smile, but couldn’t manage much more than a grimace. “No Greymane today?” 

“I - uh -” Anduin coughed surreptitiously. “I thought it best if he did not attend. I hope you don’t mind the imposition.” 

“Thank the Tides,” Jaina muttered under her breath. Then, realising what she had said, her eyes widened. “Not that he isn’t a lovely gentleman! Just that - well - This situation is already volatile as it is.” 

“If I have done anything to offend, please know it was not my intention to -”

“No,” Jaina sighed, shaking her head. “You haven’t done anything. I have.” 

Despite herself, she cast a sidelong glance in Sylvanas’ direction. His gaze followed hers over to Sylvanas’ shadowy corner. He tried to hide a wince but he did a poor job of it. Every emotion was plain as day across his face. “She does look a bit angry. Angrier than usual, I mean. She always looks angry whenever I’ve seen her. Sometimes I wonder if anger is all she knows now.” 

Sylvanas had other emotions. Jaina had seen them. Moments of surprising humour in private. Moments of anxious anticipation before a battle. Moments of friendly warmth when she was with her Rangers. 

To speak nothing of the heat in her gaze when she thought Jaina didn’t notice Sylvanas watching her. Nothing at all like now. Jaina wouldn't be surprised if Sylvanas never spoke to her again, let alone -- well -- anything else.

“She may not be a living person any longer, but she is still a person,” said Jaina. 

"Oh! Oh, no, I didn't mean -!" Anduin was waving his hands about nervously, grasping for words. "Of course, she is."

"Not everything your advisors say about her is true. Well," Jaina admitted. "Some of it is. But she isn't what you think."

"Genn and Sylvanas have a history. I know that. And though he is one of my closest advisors, his distrust of her has not clouded my vision. I assure you." 

Anduin spoke with sincerity. Then again, Anduin did everything with sincerity. It was rather alarming, really. Sincerity was not something Jaina was used to. History had made her distrustful of it, which she hated. She did not want to be suspicious of people who spoke their minds truthfully, but it was difficult to overcome when so many lessons in her life had taught her to do so. 

Lowering her voice slightly so as not to be overheard, Jaina said, "And our deal?" 

His shoulders straightened and he lifted his chin, meeting her eye steadily. "I will of course uphold it. I am a man of my word." 

"I know you are," she said softly. 

When she offered him a small smile, he returned it. The expression brightened his whole face; he was so young. Barely of age and altruistic to a fault. 

"I think Genn nearly had an apoplectic fit when I told him, actually," Anduin admitted a little sheepishly. “I waited as long as I could before revealing the plan to him.”

Jaina snorted. "I'm sure he did.” Her voice sharpened somewhat. “But he'll do as he's told?"

"He may not like it, but he will fall in line. I have made it very clear to him that there's more than just the future of the Alliance at stake." 

Jaina nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate for this friendship of ours to end so early."

"As would I. If we play our cards right, I think everyone should be able to win." He smiled again, a bit more broadly this time. "And to be honest, I quite like you. Most people tend to think I'm either too young or inexperienced. They talk to me through my advisors. I appreciate that you approached me directly." 

Jaina could feel her own stance soften a bit. "I was surprised you listened to me at all, Your Majesty."

"How many times must I tell you to call me Anduin?" 

"At least once more."

With a smile, he gestured to her empty glass. “Shall we drink to success?”

“I never took you for much of a drinker.”

“Oh, I’m not. But I understand that it’s a local necessity in Kul Tiras.” He waved over a waiter and said, “I’ll have what she’s having, thank you.” 

The waiter looked at Jaina expectantly, and she held up her glass. “Whiskey, please. Neat.” 

Soon Anduin was holding up a tumbler of amber liquid. “To peace,” he said. 

Jaina did not say anything further. She simply tipped back the whiskey. When Anduin did the same, he coughed and sputtered at the burn. Jaina patted him gamely on the back.

“Maybe that was a bad idea,” he rasped, and handed the glass back to the waiter, who looked like they were trying their very best to keep a straight face.

“You did very well,” Jaina assured him.

The waiter shot her a look that all but outright called her a liar.

“It was a lovely gesture,” she amended accordingly. Passing over her own glass, she said to the waiter, “Thank you. You may go.” 

“Ma’am,” they murmured. And with a bow they left. 

Still trying to clear his throat of the alcoholic burn, Anduin rubbed at his chest and said, “The local brew is as hospitable as its nobles, I see.” 

Jaina laughed softly. It felt good to laugh -- reminded her that there were some things she had at least done right. “I just saw a whole crowd fawning over you.”

He made a face as though he’d had another sip of whiskey. “Not all of them are pleased to see me. And I can’t blame them. I know how the Alliance treated your people after the Wars. We should have done more for our own, and instead we failed you.” 

Humming a note, Jaina said, “I see you’ve been talking to Priscilla.” 

“And Lord Stormsong.” 

A quick glance around the room proved that Priscilla and Alred stood on opposite sides of the hall from one another, as though repelled like the wrong side of a magnet. Surrounding each of them was their own coterie of followers -- swarthy and bedecked in gold on one side, deeply cowled and clutching staves on the other. When they weren’t talking amongst themselves, they were shooting Anduin, Jaina, and Sylvanas dark looks. 

"Do I want to know what they said to you?" Jaina asked.

Anduin's answering smile was thin. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"At least allow me to introduce you to Lady Waycrest," said Jaina. "She is bound to be a bit more accommodating."

"I would like that very much."

It did not take Jaina long to find her by the long banquet table. Lucille had her dark hair done up with brass-pale ribbon trailing down her back, emphasising the train of her green gown. It was a bold colour choice for a day like today, when wearing the colours of House Proudmoore was like pledging undying allegiance to anyone who looked at her. She was speaking animatedly with Velonara, who was -- to Jaina’s surprise -- dressed in a striking Kul Tiran styled tailcoat.

Whereas Anya could often be seen with a streak of dirt across her face -- as quick with a puckish grin as she was with a bow and arrow -- Velonara was always immaculate in her presentation, come hell or high water. She was everything humans thought an elf should be: cool and lofty with hair like sunlight and an elegant way about her every manner. Death had only dulled Velonara's lustre somewhat, so she seemed like old tarnished silver that had buffed to a shine with painstaking care.

Lucille caught sight of them approaching and waved them over. “Oh, Jaina! Perfect! Just the person I was hoping to talk to.” 

“Lucille, can I introduce you to Anduin Wrynn, High King of Stormwind,” Jaina said, gesturing to Anduin, who bowed.

Waving at him in an absent-minded kind of way, Lucille said, “Charmed, yes, I’m sure. Anyway, Jaina. There is something you must do for me right away.” 

Anduin’s pleasant smile slipped into something befuddled as he shot Jaina an imploring look. She fumbled for what to do, but Lucille hadn’t stopped talking long enough for her to say anything further.

“I have just learned of an absolute catastrophe for our friends among the Horde,” Lucille announced, her voice lowering to a clandestine whisper as she leaned in with a significant glance towards both Jaina and Anduin. 

Jaina stiffened. “Oh?” she asked, trying not to sound too nervous. 

Nodding gravely, Lucille said, “Yes. Velonara here has just informed me that she doesn’t know how to dance the  _ passpied _ . Can you imagine? This travesty must be redressed post haste. It just won’t do.” 

Jaina blinked in surprise. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, while beside her Anduin looked a mixture of both confused and amused. 

“From what I’ve been told, it involves a lot of skipping and strutting about,” Velonara drawled. She always managed to sound bored somehow, though what she said next was, “I must try it immediately.” 

Jaina floundered for a moment longer for a proper response before saying, “Well, the dance floor should open following the banquet and some more socialising. I am sure the string quartet will play the right song for you, if you ask.”

Lucille looked horrified. “We can’t wait that long! Don’t you realise the extent of this diplomatic disaster?”

Beside her, Velonara was nodded along emphatically, her expression sober. Of all the people Jaina had expected this sort of nonsense from, Velonara was at the very bottom of the list. Right alongside Nathanos and Katherine. And yet, here Lucille and Velonara were both watching Jaina expectantly. 

“What exactly do you want me to do? Order everyone to clear a path so you two can dance?” Jaina asked with a helpless little gesture at the other guests still mingling about the hall. 

“Or -” Lucille drew the syllable out as though savouring it, her tone wheedling, “- you could join in.”

Shaking her head with an exasperated laugh, Jaina said, "I've barely made my rounds yet.”

"Yes, I know, but please?" Lucille's eyes were large and dark and beseeching in the light of the hall. "If you open the dance floor, nobody will question it and everyone will join us. And besides, these sorts of events are so dreadfully dull. Don’t you want today to be memorable and fun?” 

This day was already memorable. Jaina had been seeing glimpses of it for years. It had haunted her ever since she died. 

What she really wanted was for this day to be over, so she could go to bed and sleep. But with sleep came The Dream and more unpleasant things. Jaina was sighing and rubbing at her forehead, when -- to her surprise -- Anduin spoke up beside her. 

“Lady Waycrest, your enthusiasm is contagious. It would be a shame to see it snuffed out, when the night is so young.” He offered his hand to Jaina with a small flourish. “I would be delighted if you allowed me the honour of the first dance, Lord Admiral.” 

“Oh, excellent. I like him,” Lucille murmured.

People were starting to take more notice of them now. Before there had been a sense of being watched lurking beneath the surface, like an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. But now that the High King of Stormwind was offering the Lord Admiral his hand, people were definitely beginning to stare. A few nudged one another and muttered something.

Across the room, Sylvanas was watching. Jaina wasn’t sure her eyes had ever strayed far; she could feel Sylvanas’ gaze upon her ever since she entered the hall. Jaina looked away, only to find that Velonara was watching her as well. Whereas earlier the Ranger had seemed quite taken by Lucille’s enthusiasm, now she waited for Jaina’s reaction with a sense of detached calculation. Her eyes bore the faint sheen of necromancy, which seemed brighter here, in the full light of the Keep. 

Firmly, Jaina took Anduin’s hand and said, “The pleasure would be mine, Your Majesty.” 

Lucille was delighted. Anduin’s own satisfaction was echoed in a far more muted way. Meanwhile Velonara feigned sudden disinterest in Jaina entirely, while across the room Sylvanas seemed to fume as though Jaina had only done exactly what had been expected. 

It felt like failing a test. A test that had been set up specifically for her to fail. 

Still, Jaina tightened her hold on Anduin. With her free hand she gestured to the mezzanine towards the conductor. He saw and quickly shushed the current song being played, leaving behind a silence that caught the entire Hall’s attention. People from every corner of the room glanced about at the sudden stop in music, and a space was cleared on the floor.

Lucille grabbed Velonara’s hand and dragged her over. When people saw what was happening, other couples began to join in, lining up in preparation for the first dance of the evening. There were a few appreciative murmurs about how early the dance was beginning, but nobody seemed to mind. They found it novel. A break in the usual routine of court events. 

The music was starting, the first few bars swaying along to a rhythm that would bring the dancers in together. Jaina and Anduin loosely held their hands together, standing across from one another in line with the other couples. At the centre of the dancefloor, Jaina felt exposed, as though she were on display. She shifted uncomfortably. Anduin gave her hands a little squeeze. Her eyes jerked back to him, and he smiled.

With his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, Anduin said, “I hope I remember the steps. I have not danced in an age.” 

“That makes two of us,” said Jaina. “It doesn’t help that the last time I did this, I didn’t have to lead.” 

“Wait. You’re leading?” 

“It’s Kul Tiran custom for the taller partner to lead, regardless of gender,” she said and gave the top of his head a pointed look. 

A look of sudden fear crossed Anduin’s face. “I don’t know how to  _ not _ lead in this dance.” 

She returned his smile with a wry one of her own, and shrugged. It was too late for either of them to back out now. They were the centrepiece of the floor, and the music had indicated their cue to begin. 

The steps returned to Jaina far more easily than she had anticipated. Not even a trip to Thros could expunge hours of dance lessons drilled into her as a child by overzealous stewards charged with training an unruly eleven year old for appearance at court. It also helped that Lucille had been kind enough to practice with her when Jaina asked earlier in the week. Indeed, Lucille had leapt at the opportunity. 

All of the couples on the dance floor moved in a synchronised pattern. They moved in lines, then wheeled about before coming back together again. Thankfully this particular dance did not involve much by way of the partners lingering close together. More often than not, Jaina and Anduin would break apart and take a turn about the dancefloor around one another or even around another couple. Once or twice, Jaina caught sight of Lucille and Velonara laughing nearby. Lucille’s laughter could be heard over the music as Velonara exaggerated the skip in her steps for her amusement. 

All things considered, Anduin did very well. He only stumbled once over a series of steps, leading to Jaina having to correct him hastily so that they did not run into a nearby couple. 

Face red, Anduin mumbled, “Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jaina murmured. “Only half of Boralus saw.” 

“I am pretending they don’t exist.” 

“An excellent plan. I would follow suit, but they might disapprove.” 

He hummed. “Constituents tend to not like being ignored.” 

On the next beat, she accidentally stepped on his foot, and winced sympathetically. 

“Don’t worry,” he parroted back at her. “Only half of Boralus saw.” 

Jaina made a face at him, and he laughed. It felt like dancing with one of her brothers. If her brothers had been younger and significantly shorter than she was. Still, it was nice. The two of them relaxed, continuing to chat amiably, and as they thought less about their steps, their dancing improved and no other major blunders were made. 

When the music stopped, Jaina was almost disappointed. They stepped away from one another and inclined their heads in small bows. 

“Thank you,” Anduin said as he straightened. “I had a wonderful time.” 

“As did I,” said Jaina, and her smile had a real warmth to it this time. He beamed in reply. 

The strings were starting up again as the musicians on the mezzanine indicated another song. All around them the couples were shuffling around for new dance partners. Immediately Lucille was upon them with Velonara at her side. 

“My turn now, Your Majesty.” Lucille grabbed Anduin by the hand and began leading him away. “Velonara, do you want to give the Lord Admiral a spin?” 

All it took was one glance at the icy glint in Velonara’s eyes for Jaina to disavow herself of that notion. 

“Please forgive me, but I really must make my rounds,” Jaina said. 

She offered a little bow, but Velonara merely shrugged, already drifting away to find some new dance partner to entertain her for the evening while Lucille was busy with the High King of Stormwind. 

It was a relief to get away, even for a little while. People everywhere demanded her attention, seeking to extend their best wishes and then engage her in more heavy conversations as to her plans for the state. Though no matter who she spoke to, everyone seemed equally unhappy with the turn of events. Kul Tirans of all stripes wanted to keep their nation cloistered away from both the Horde and Alliance. And of course both the Alliance and Horde wanted far more than she had allowed them. The Kul Tiran nobles in particular each made their displeasure known with a mixture of veiled passive-aggressive allusions, pointed looks, and sometimes outright disapproval. 

“Your open border policy will put me out of business,” one nobleman snapped. He was gripping a tankard of beer in one meaty fist. He wore his own wares proudly on display, draped in rich textiles that half the room was wearing -- Lucille included. 

“Lord Scarbrough,” Jaina sighed, rubbing at her brow. “I cannot in good conscience condone tariffs that high. The Alliance and the Horde will cry extortion. Because that’s exactly what you’re proposing.” 

“Look here. Look.” He shuffled around in one of his pockets, withdrawing a folded piece of paper which he thrust forward into Jaina’s hands. “Already a bill of landing from a Horde shipment that arrived yesterday evening.”

Taking the page from him with a frown, Jaina unfolded the paper and read it. Her eyes immediately sought out the harbourmaster’s stamp and that of the stevedores’ guild. “I don’t see the problem. Everything seems to be in order here. They brought their goods in on a Kul Tiran hull. They paid all customs and excise dues. They followed all the rules to the letter. It even says here that they have already arranged a local importer to onsell their goods.”

“Exactly! How am I supposed to compete with goblin slave workers manufacturing everything overseas?” 

“I hardly think there are slave workers at -” Jaina paused to check who exactly he wanted to impose tariffs upon, and her eyebrows rose. “-  _ ‘Duskweave Fabrics’ _ in Suramar.” 

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong!” Lord Scarbrough said. Spots of colour on his cheeks were beginning to show through the powder he wore on his face. He was wearing more cosmetics than she was.

Tucking the bill of landing into her own pocket, Jaina steeled herself for a long argument. That damned waltz was back. Someone nearby commented on how much they liked it. Jaina had to clench her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. The white fabric of her gloves stretched taut over her knuckles. She steadied herself with a deep breath.

Lord Scarbrough’s voice had trailed off however, and he was staring over Jaina’s shoulder. 

“May I have the next round?”

At the sound of that voice, Jaina’s eyes widened. She turned to find Sylvanas offering her hand. Everything about her was the picture of gallantry, but for the seething fire in her coal-bright eyes. When Anduin had offered her his hand, a few surrounding people murmured. Now that the Warchief of the Horde was requesting a dance, everyone around them fell silent and stared. They watched with bated breath, waiting to see the Lord Admiral’s reaction. 

Eyes darting about, Jaina lowered her voice and whispered in a rush, “You really want a dance with me? After everything?” 

“I want exactly what the boy king had. I think I am owed that, at least.” Sylvanas extended her hand fractionally closer towards her in an unspoken question, or perhaps a challenge. “Or would you prefer to publicly snub me before a room full of our peers?” 

It was an effort for Jaina to keep her expression neutral. Finally, she took Sylvanas’ hand and said for everyone to hear, “I would be honoured, Warchief.” 

There was something triumphant in the way Sylvanas pressed their fingers together and led her to the dance floor. To anyone watching, the two would have appeared formal in every regard -- as formal and stiff as the Lord Admiral had been with the High King of Stormwind -- but inside Jaina’s stomach was a pit of live snakes. The beat was a lilting thrum in her head like a gasping heartbeat. Sylvanas was watching her with the intensity of a storm crow. 

And then they were dancing. 

Unlike before when she had danced with Anduin, the floor was cleared of other people. Even Lucille seemed to have been driven off; she was nowhere in sight. Everyone gathered around the edge of the dancefloor to behold the spectacle like an audience at a gladiatorial game hoping for the chance of bloodshed. Jaina did her best to ignore them, but failed utterly.

For her part, Sylvanas appeared completely unperturbed by the entire affair. 

"Why are you doing this?" Jaina breathed.

Sylvanas did not answer. She was light-footed, effortlessly going through the steps. Sylvanas may have told her tales that the Court of Silvermoon used to bore her to tears, but this familiarity with courtly custom belied that. Jaina had never known someone who could dance menacingly, but somehow Sylvanas managed it. She kept her hand high on Sylvanas' back, as far from her waist as it possibly could be. Meanwhile, Sylvanas gripped her shoulder so tightly she thought her coat might have holes gouged into the fabric by the end of the song.

It felt too much like The Dream. Like she was removed from her own body, watching herself dance from the sidelines. Supposedly, she was leading, but she did not feel like she was. Sylvanas guided their steps, and Jaina followed along as though under a spell. Slowly the great hall became a blur, until only the music remained, one of Sylvanas' hands on her shoulder, the other clutched tightly in her own gloved fingers. 

She barely registered that the song had finished, and their steps had slowed to a reluctant halt. Somewhere in the distance, Jaina was sure she could still hear the faint sound of a bow being dragged across strings. The echo of the quartet along the vaulted ceiling, perhaps. Or a memory she could never truly shake, more likely. 

Sweeping back her cloak, Sylvanas bowed and lifted the back of Jaina’s gloved hand so she could brush her lips against Jaina’s knuckles in a brief kiss. Jaina was so startled by the act, she snatched her hand away, clenching it into a fist behind her back. Sylvanas was cold, but the touch had burned.

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat politely nearby, and murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. Jaina took a step away from Sylvanas and looked around. The last person she expected to be interrupting them was Anduin. He smiled at the both of them, though the expression seemed especially forced when he turned to Sylvanas. 

“Warchief,” he said, bowing low at the waist. “Might I impose upon your goodwill as well? Though I’m afraid I will not be as light on my feet as the Lord Admiral.” 

At that, Sylvanas shot Jaina an accusatory glance. Jaina shook her head, silently denying that she had anything to do with this. 

A few onlookers shifted their weight and exchanged nervous mutters, as though they fully expected a fight to break out. Jaina could not blame them. She had put in place a ‘no weapons’ policy tonight for a reason.

Eventually however, Sylvanas merely inclined her head towards Anduin and took his hand. They were of a height with one another -- perhaps with her ears Sylvanas was a smidge taller -- but she did not give him the slightest opportunity to take the lead. 

Anduin did not complain. He sounded like he was steeling himself when he said, “I was hoping to speak with you in person.”

“And why would you think that was a wise decision?” Sylvanas asked.

For all his bravery, he stuttered on his reply. Jaina did not overhear anything more. A new song had begun. A few courageous couples took to the floor as well, dancing alongside the Warchief of the Horde and the High King of Stormwind, who seemed to be locked in a glaring match.

Jaina made herself scarce, trying her best to fade into the crowd, though eyes followed her wherever she went. She only found solace in a far corner of the room, furthest from the banquet table. There, an archway was partially concealed by a suit of armour and a tapestry along the wall behind it. No sooner had she ducked beneath the arch and leaned against the wall to catch her breath, than she was almost immediately found again.

Katherine peered around the suit of armour. "I thought I might find you here after you bolted like a skittish yearling.” 

“And where the bloody hell have you been?” 

“Hiding from Lucille,” Katherine said. When Jaina gave her a questioning look, she explained, “She has been trying to get me onto the dance floor ever since you opened it. I keep telling her I’m far too old and injured for that kind of nonsense, but she won’t hear a word of it.” 

“Is that all? Would you like to trade places? I’ll dance with Lucille, and you can cause a diplomatic scandal.”

“I’d hardly call that a scandal, my dear. ‘Excitement,’ perhaps. Everyone has been thoroughly entertained.” 

“Well, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening,” Jaina said. 

“Nonsense,” her mother scoffed. “If there’s anything I know -- and I know quite a bit about what you’re about to go through, mark me -- it’s that this is only just beginning.” 

Jaina shuddered. “Now, that’s a frightening thought.” 

“Really? I thought I was being uplifting for a change.” Katherine offered her a tight smile that was trying to be reassuring, as though she didn’t quite know how to offer consolation. She jerked her head to one side for Jaina to follow her. “Come along, now. I have a Rear Admiral who has a great deal of promise that I think would help you in the days to come.”

Sighing, Jaina followed. It was going to be a long night. 

* * *

Back in her quarters, Jaina trudged into the room at the end of the evening. Her feet were killing her. She kicked off her buckled shoes and flopped gracelessly down onto the bed, arms outspread. She didn't even bother taking off her coat. 

The guests had lingered on for hours. They had only trickled out of Proudmoore Keep reluctantly, the noise growing more boisterous the longer the night drew on and the more alcohol they had consumed. Jaina had felt obliged to stay. They had come for her, after all. Anduin had excused himself and retired long before his Horde counterpart. And Sylvanas had stayed exactly as long as Jaina had, as though her presence were a personal challenge.

Eyes slipping shut, Jaina was about to succumb to exhaustion when she noticed something off. She pushed herself up to her elbows on the bed and frowned.

There at the foot of her bed the heavy lid of the trunk had been opened. The lock that normally kept it shut had been sprung. It was discarded on the ground nearby, as though it had simply fallen there. 

Slowly rising to her white-stockinged feet, Jaina rounded the mattress. Her wards on the lock should have alerted her the moment they had been tampered with, but they hadn't. Or maybe she had been so preoccupied tonight that she simply hadn't felt it. Though that seemed unlikely. 

But when she looked down into the trunk, its single content was still there. The skull mask of the High Thornspeaker stared back at her. The black sockets of its eyes faintly gleamed. 

Without a word, Jaina shut the lid over the skull, and locked it away once more. This time, she layered a few extra spells over the lock, even knowing that it wouldn’t work.

And then at last she could sleep.

* * *

* * *

In the end, she finds Gorak Tul sitting on the stump of an old felled tree. The earth is dry and pale and withered. Not a blade of grass dares grow. There once was a forest here, but now the land of Thros is littered with a warren of stumps that extend as far as the eye can see in every direction, fading into the fog that densely gathers so that the world seems too close and too vast all at once.

The trees themselves have long since been carted away, leaving behind a blank emptiness that rings in its own silence. Only a single lonely tree remains. A blackened ash devoid of leaves, barely clinging to the vestiges of life. Gorak Tul is sharpening an axe. His clothes are rag and bone, weathered by the ages. He does not look up when she approaches. Whether it is because he does not hear her or he does not care, she does not know. She grips her staff tighter in her hands to steady herself, and takes a step forward.

“Where is Arthur?” Jaina asks.

Gorak Tul does not look up. He does not even seem to register her presence. The whetstone grinds slowly and meticulously along the edge of the double-headed woodsman’s axe. Finally, he rumbles, “Who?” 

“Arthur! Where is he?” Jaina repeats. “What have you done with him?”

“You mean the boy? I did to him what I do to all who trespass in my domain.” A spark flies from the blade as Gorak Tul files it to a razor fine edge. Even sitting down, he is as tall as she is. “And why are you here? That I might know what fate to befall you.”

Jaina’s hands are shaking. She holds her staff before her, pointing it at him. “I’ve come here to find Arthur. And then I will kill you.” 

Gorak Tul continues sharpening his axe. He does not even bother to look up at her. “How?’

Face screwing up in confusion, Jaina stutters over exactly what to say. She hasn’t given it much thought, truth be told, the method of killing him. “I will stab you with an ice lance.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Through the heart?” 

“If you even have one. Then, yes.”

“That will not work. The only way to kill me is for the Hero to cut off my head and wear it back to Gol Inath.” 

“Then I shall cut off your head.” 

“That will not work.” 

Exasperated, Jaina snaps, “You just said -! You know what? This is ridiculous. We’re not going to just sit here talking about it.” 

Gorak Tul’s movements are practised, almost idle. As though he is whittling away the time, bored by her presence. The whetstone rasps over the heavy tarnished blade of his axe. “It will not work,” he says, “because you are not the Hero.” 

“There is no Hero,” Jaina counters. “That’s just a myth. A hero is someone who takes a stand and does something, while others just wait to be saved.” 

He laughs and the sound sends a shiver of unease up her spine. “Such arrogance! Very well. I will teach you, Little One, as your Thornspeakers should have taught you, a lesson in humility.”

Jaina opens her mouth to retort, but the words die on her lips as Gorak Tul slowly rises to his feet. He towers over her, tall and broad as a mountain. Though there is no sunlight in Thros, his shadow looms across the land no matter which way he moves, so that his face is always cast in darkness, his eyes blazing like stars. Black horns crown his head, thorny and moss-clutched. He is a being of stone and briar, wood and foliage, strong and bluff as ancient trees that had weathered the centuries and would weather many more. 

Going tense, Jaina bends her knees slightly, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Gorak Tul lets the whetstone drop to the ground with a heavy thud. And then he holds out his axe towards her with both hands.

“Take it,” he says. “Strike me down.” 

Hesitant, wondering if this is some sort of trap, Jaina sets her staff upon the ground, then reaches out and takes the axe. It is nearly as tall as she is. Her arms can barely lift it. With a grunt, she manages to balance it on one shoulder, ready to swing. 

Gorak Tul even bows before her, lays bare his neck for the blow. Gripping the axe, Jaina lifts it high into the air, as high as she can, until her arms strain beneath the weight, then brings it down. In a single blow, Gorak Tul’s head is severed from his body. It rolls unevenly across the earth and comes to a halt upon one of its horns. Black blood floods forth from his neck, pouring upon the thirsty ground, which drinks it up, fast and hungering, the smell rotten like that of a corpse freshly unburied. 

Not for a moment does Gorak Tul falter. His body remains bowed before her. And then his arms reach out for his head, picking it up from the ground. 

Jaina stumbles back a step, dragging the axe with her. Her eyes widen, and a cold horror grips her stomach tight. As though nothing had happened at all, Gorak Tul holds his head aloft by the horns, and places it back upon the trunk of his neck. 

“And now,” he takes the axe from her hands as weightlessly as though it were a twig. “It is your turn.”

* * *

* * *

One of Jaina’s first courses of action as the newly appointed Lord Admiral was to begin forming as many ties with other nations as possible. She sent emissaries. She sent letters. She sent gifts. She sent invitations. She arranged visits. As many as possible. 

Responses were mixed. Mostly wary regards. Some warm. The best accompanied by return gifts or emissaries requesting lodgings in Proudmoore Keep, which Jaina promptly arranged with all the finery Boralus had to offer -- which, admittedly, was not very much. 

To the Alliance and Horde she sent the most missives, detailing matters of state and the overall state of affairs as more and more of their members began to show up in Kul Tiras. She was very careful to write Sylvanas and Anduin an equal number of letters. Anduin responded enthusiastically and often, if not always. He referred to himself in the formal third person --  _ ‘His Majesty’s satisfaction’  _ this and  _ ‘His Majesty’s approval’  _ that -- but always he would sign the bottom with a flourish that blotted the ink. 

Sylvanas responded not at all, ever.

The rare times Jaina received missives from Orgrimmar, they were penned in Nathanos’ hand and signed with his name on behalf of the Dark Lady, Warchief of the Horde, Queen of the Forsaken, etc. etc.

Sylvanas never even deigned to sign them or give any indication that she had read them at all. And stubbornly, Jaina continued to pen letters herself. 

All right. Perhaps Jaina wrote a few more letters to Sylvanas than she did to Anduin. But just a few. A dozen more. Or two. 

Who was counting? Certainly not Sylvanas.

* * *

The quarterly meeting of the Great Houses never became any less unbearable. Even when winter had long faded into spring and the weather became less cold but more wet. If that were at all possible. Jaina's memories of Boralus were fuzzy at best. She didn't recall it being quite this rainy before. At least in Drustvar there was some variation to the weather. Though not much.

"We still have a general food shortage around all of Kul Tiras," Alfred was saying. His voice echoed in the tall ceiling of the assembly chamber which bore just the four of them -- as was custom. "Stormsong Valley can last us the year, but by the coming winter we will need to tighten our belts."

"A food shortage?" Lucille drawled, her eyes moving the Priscilla in a sidelong glance. "Well, I wonder why that might be."

Priscilla shot her an ugly look. "I don't know why you worry. If we run out of food, the Lord Admiral -" she emphasised the title as though it both pained her to speak and was beneath her notice "- can just snap her fingers and make some more."

Rubbing at her temple, Jaina shook her head. "Actually, I can't. If I do that all the time, then the natural yield will grow less and less, until it becomes a wasteland. We need to let the land lie fallow."

"A wonderful start to your first year as our benevolent leader," Priscilla sneered. "Civil war and now famine."

Jaina refused to rise to the bait, though it was tempting. "It is not as bad as that, as I understand it. Or am I incorrect, Lord Stormsong?"

Alfred nodded. "You are correct. Though if this should continue beyond one year, then Priscilla will have the last word."

"Perish the thought," Lucille muttered under her breath.

Giving her a warning look -- which Lucille pretended not to notice -- Jaina straightened in her seat. The ceremonial gothic, high-backed wooden chairs in this chamber were uncomfortable beyond compare. A thin cotton-bound cushion did little to help the ache in her lower back. All of them were identical, but for the Lord Admirals’, which was a little taller than the others. "There are other ways to solve this temporary issue. With open borders we can -"

"Here we go again." Priscille rolled her eyes.

Glowering, Jaina raised her voice slightly and did not stop talking. "With open borders, we can establish new trade routes with both the Horde and Alliance. We can stimulate our economy at home by exporting goods, and we can import larger quantities of food than we have ever been able to do in the past." 

“I for one vote for establishing new trade routes immediately,” Lucille said. Her legs were crossed beneath the long hems of her fine gown so that she looked elegant. Whereas Jaina merely felt haggard. 

For her part, Priscilla pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“The head of the Merchant House can’t possibly not want more trade,” Lucille scoffed.

With a dark scowl in her direction, Priscilla said, “I also vote for new trade routes. But only on the condition that all freight is carried by Kul Tiran hulls, and that the Admiralty guarantees a pre-agreed margin.” 

Jaina nodded curtly. “We can discuss percentages at a later date.” 

All eyes then turned to Alfred. His staff was leaning against the back of his chair, but in his mitre of office he appeared even more saturnine than usual. He tapped his fingers in an uneven rhythm against the dark and polished wooden arm of his chair. 

Finally Lucille burst out, “Oh, do say something, Alfred. The suspense of knowing that you’re outvoted yet again is killing me. Truly.” 

The answering expression on his face could have curdled milk. “The Horde and the Alliance can both hang,” he hissed. “But if it’s between that and foul Drust magic, then I will also cast my vote in favour of new trade routes. Consider it the lesser of two evils.” 

“Need I remind you,” Lucille said, “that her  _ ‘foul Drust magic’  _ saved the lives of many good Kul Tiran citizens not a few months ago.”

“Is that what you think? Her magic is not the pretty little agricultural tricks she would have you to believe.” His lip curled as he looked at Jaina, his dark eyes raking over her as though looking for a gap in armour. “Drust magic is death magic. They are one and the same. Two sides of a coin. She could kill you and bring you back to serve her without batting an eye.” 

An awkward silence fell following that statement. Priscilla shifted uncomfortably in her seat. However Jaina did not look away from Alfred, meeting his gaze and holding it staunchly. 

There was no use denying it. Not when it was true. Not when she had raised more from the grave than most liches accomplished in their own undeath. Not when she could remember attending Alfred's funeral twelve years from now. She remembered the types of flowers that would adorn the casket they pushed into the sea. She remembered the patterned hilt of the sword she would plant in the earth for him. She remembered how Mayor Roz would become guardian of his daughter, Charlotte, until she came of age. 

She could tell him. She could tell each of them in turn. But it wouldn’t accomplish anything except making them afraid of her, driving a wedge between them and thereby doing exactly what Alfred wanted. 

“You’re right,” Jaina said, refusing to back down. “The Drust are not without means, and neither am I. But I wouldn’t start pointing fingers before you look to your own shores.” 

“Is that some sort of threat?” he sneered. 

Jaina shook her head. “Not at all. Only know that I am aware of the Monastery’s -- what shall we call them? --  _ ‘dalliances’ _ with the vasty deep.”

All of a sudden, Alfred’s face went white as a sheet. “That’s impossible. How could you know about -?” His mouth snapped shut before he could finish that sentence.

“Be careful where you tread, Lord Stormsong,” she murmured. “The land is steadfast, but the sea is fickle. She cares for you now perhaps, but tomorrow?” Jaina shrugged her shoulders. “Who can say.” 

“I will not be lectured by a forest witch on the mysteries of the sea. You know nothing of the depths. The Tidemother watches over us.”

“Of course she does. I only pray that she doesn’t do anything more than watch.” 

Suspicion crossed Alfred’s face. “What do you know of the Tides?” he asked derisively. “The Drust have their claws in you. Whatever connection you had to the ocean is long gone.” 

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. I am a daughter of the sea as much as any Kul Tiran. My blood is salt. I hear the whispers on the waves. But make no mistake -- the moment they become more than whispers, I will not hesitate to bring the full force of the Navy down upon the Monastery.” 

“Sacrilege,” Alfred spat, half-rising from his seat. “It is an offence to some of the oldest laws of Kul Tiras to attack the Monastery.” 

“Yes. But it is a greater offence still to endanger innocent lives. If any House were to do so, then it is the utmost duty of the Admiralty to protect the people of Kul Tiras. And I am, if nothing else, my parents' daughter. I take my duty very seriously.” 

Alfred sat back down. A long and uncomfortable silence settled over the room and its inhabitants. Splotches of angry colour were reddening Alfred’s cheeks. Meanwhile Priscilla watched the two of them with wary cunning, as though trying to figure out which one of them would win should it come to blows. 

Then abruptly Lucille clapped her hands and announced, “Well! Shall we break for lunch? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m absolutely famished.”

* * *

* * *

Her father sings a mournful shanty and plays knucklebones on the ground while she is dying. He tosses jacks into the air and catches three of them on the back of his ghostly hand.

“Pigs in the pen,” Daelin mutters. 

He sets them aside and starts again for the rest, while above him Jaina dangles from a length of rope. 

“How does it feel?” he asks, scattering the bones along the hard-packed soil between the great tree’s roots. “Knowing that you killed me?”

She didn’t kill him -- not in this lifetime -- but she can remember it regardless. His blood on her hands, pleading with him to listen to reason even as he chokes on the rage bubbling up in his mouth, red and vile as a curse. 

There is a click of bone as he throws the taw into the air and snatches up two jacks from the ground. He rattles them around in his palm. When he looks up at her, half of his face is gone, revealing bare muscle clinging to bone beneath the skin. 

“Your loving mother will never forgive you,” he hisses.  _ “Murderer.”  _

He scatters the knucklebones back on the ground and begins the third round, humming as he continues to play.

* * *

* * *

Waycrest Manor had lost some of its gloom since the last time Jaina had visited. But not much. Meredith Waycrest hadn't even been successful in bringing Gorak Tul back into this realm, and still the effects of his presence could be felt. Even though it was midday, the sky over the mansion was still darker than the surrounding countryside. Plants struggled to grow. The once sprawling tailored gardens that extended across the northern grounds remained withered and blackened, the earth dry and hard as clay. 

Lucille had hired a few gardeners to try to perk the place back up, to no avail. As Jaina walked by one of them planting a row of wilting flowers, she paused. 

"May I?"

The gardener glanced over his shoulder, then blanched when he saw exactly who it was that had spoken to him. He stumbled to his feet, brushing the dirt from his hands and knees. "Ma'am."

Despite the white cloth of her stockings and breeches, Jaina knelt down on the ground. Already the earth was leeching the new blooms of life. Every moment the flowers remained in the ground, their petals grew darker with blight. Stroking the underside of a leaf, Jaina then stripped the glove from her hand and placed her palm upon the soil. 

She could feel Gorak Tul's magic here, like the aftertaste of rust and copper on the tongue. It poisoned the ground. Closing her eyes, Jaina drew as much of it into herself as she could. Until she was brimming with it. Until black veins twisted up her arm and shoulder and neck. Until she could taste blood.

When she pulled her hand away and opened her eyes, the ground had turned to rich loam in an uneven circle around her. Further beyond however, it remained dead and decaying. 

Sighing, Jaina stood and began pulling her glove back on. “That is all I can do for now. It will take time. I’ll arrange for someone to visit from the Crimson Forest every fortnight to have a look at the grounds for you.”

Eyes wide, he nodded. His nervous expression did not change a whit when she smiled at him.

Behind her, Jaina heard a voice call out, “Trust me to find you in the garden. Why am I not surprised?”

Jaina turned. Lucille was standing at one of the doors leading from the courtyard back into the west wing of the manor. Lucille’s dress was dark and fine; she always dressed in the latest fashion. Jaina could remember Meredith harshly scolding Lucille as a child for even the slightest speck of mud on her hems. Even though it had been Jaina’s fault for dragging her out to run around through the garden mazes. Afterwards, it was near impossible to convince Lucille to play with her outside. She’d been timid, even back then. 

Tilting her head towards the grounds, Jaina asked, "Take a turn about the garden with me? It's a lovely day."

It was in fact a horrid day. The promise of rain was heavy in the sky. 

Lucille gave the clouds a dubious grimace. "Maybe some other time. I've called for some cakes. Why don't we have a spot of tea?"

"You know I can't resist cake."

Lucille's dark eyes crinkled when she smiled. "That's why I had them made especially." 

She gestured for Jaina to follow after her and disappeared back inside. No sooner had Jaina taken a step after her, than a cold wind blew in from the northern cliffs. The hems of her greatcoat fluttered like a pennant. An icy chill ran up her spine, and the feeling of fingers closing around her neck.

And directly behind her a presence like a mountain that hissed with a familiar voice,  _ "Try as you might. Death cannot hold me." _

She whirled around, magic crackling at her fingertips, only to find the gardener watching her. Seeing the look on her face, he flinched, cowering.

"Did you say something?" she asked, her voice holding a snap.

The gardener shook his head furiously. "No, ma'am."

"And did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything. I swear it."

The magic flooding her chest waned somewhat. She lowered her arm, but her shoulders remained tense. That cold wind trailed its hand across her face like a caress. Beyond the garden, the distant hedge maze along the expansive grounds of the manor rustled its branches. 

Swallowing thickly, Jaina turned away and hurried after Lucille. 

She found her in one of the parlours of the western wing. Lucille was fluttering about a table between a set of handsome matching armchairs, fussing with the tablecloth and cakes, and adjusting the display just so. It felt like they were children again, and Lucille was arranging high tea for her collection of antique dolls, while Jaina wistfully wished they could be playing hide and seek in the blustery rain. 

The image was deceptive. Lucille had always maintained a careful veneer of bumbling frivolity. It was the only reason why she had been able to survive for so long in her mother’s care. 

The floorboards creaked beneath Jaina's feet as she approached. "Do you ever think about moving elsewhere?" she asked as she settled herself in one of the armchairs. 

Lucille shrugged and sank down into the remaining chair. "Sometimes." She plucked at the hems of her dress so that the fabric draped from her knees like a painting. It was a nervous tick of hers, as though she were still waiting for the crack of her mother's voice telling her she looked like a pig farmer's daughter. "The house isn't all that bad."

Jaina gave her a significant look.

"Oh, all right. It's terrible," Lucille relented. "But I haven't seen a ghost in months, you know. So, it's getting better. Tea?"

"Please." Jaina nudged her cup and saucer closer towards Lucille, who began to pour the painted white porcelain pot. "Who's ghost was it this time?"

"I didn't really recognise them to be perfectly honest," Lucille said airily. "They didn't have a head. Or hands for that matter. Do you take sugar?"

Lucille knew very well that Jaina took milk and no sugar. Which meant she was trying to change the topic, and being very unsubtle about it. 

Leaning forward, Jaina fixed her with a firm stare and said, "Please don't hesitate to tell me or the Drust if things start to get worse again."

Lucille dropped two teaspoons of sugar into her own cup and stirred rather vigorously. "I don't want to talk about old ghosts. They can't do anything, anyway. All they do is moan at me and give the staff a bit of a fright." She took a sip of her tea, crinkled her nose, and added another spoonful of sugar. "Anyway, what I really wanted to discuss with you was the Drust."

"What about them?" Jaina asked. She poured a dollop of milk into her tea and sat back in her chair.

"Well!" Lucille said, her eyes glittering with excitement. "I don't know if you've already heard, but a Drust moved to Corlain last month. Corlain! Directly in town! Just a few blocks from the square! Everyone has been given quite the stir!"

In truth Jaina hadn't heard anything about that. She could vaguely recall Adalyn mentioning something that sounded similar, but the information had been swept up with all the other duties she had to oversee these days. 

"That's wonderful news," said Jaina.

"I know Corlain isn't the most glamorous of places, but it's the first time in living memory that we've had that sort of thing happen." Lucille reached for a bite-sized cake and transferred it to her saucer. "I was thinking of reinstating rural fairs. You know. To try to get people mingling more. What with the history of the press, the rural city divide is very stark in Drustvar. We need more integration."

"And you're wanting help from the Admiralty?" Jaina asked, sipping at her tea.

Lucille cocked her head curiously. “No?” she said. “Not unless you’d want to attend. I mean, you’re welcome to, of course, but -”

“I would, but my schedule isn’t as free as I’d like.”

“Of course, it is. That isn’t why I asked you here.”

“Then, what do you need my help with?”

"It’s just -” Lucille finished off another small cake, and licked the frosting from her thumb. “There is  _ one _ prickly little problem I have."

"Which is?"

With a wince, Lucille said, "Taxes."

Jaina blinked and leaned back in her seat, cradling her tea to her chest. "Ah."

"From the moment of the signing of the Treaty of Watermill, all Drust became de facto citizens of Kul Tiras. Which means that they now owe taxes to me and ultimately -" she gestured to Jaina, "- the Admiralty."

“I’m assuming you already have a proposal for me.”

"Actually, I was hoping to bundle a bit of legislation with the land reforms," Lucille said. "A lower tax rate for the Drust in general, and a zero tax rate incentive for Drust who purchase land or run businesses in certain areas of Drustvar."

Jaina mused over this idea. She sipped at her cup of tea thoughtfully. "That could work. Though you will need to inform them of it directly, of course."

With a frown of confusion, Lucille asked, "Why? I'm telling you now, aren't I? I was hoping that as the High Thornspeaker you would keep me informed as to the wants and needs of your constituents."

Jaina shook her head. "It doesn't work like that."

"But aren't you their leader?"

"Being the High Thornspeaker isn't like being a king. The Drust kill their kings."

"Then who am I supposed to talk to about this sort of thing?"

"There isn't a single person. Not really. I can give them copies of legislation on your behalf, but I do not speak for them. If they want something, then they will just show up at Waycrest Manor and speak with you. You will think it very informal."

"All right," Lucille said dubiously.

Balancing her tea and saucer on the arm of her chair, Jaina sighed. Then after a moment of deliberation she said, "Always offer them food. More than you think they can eat. And even if they decline, give them food to take away with them."

Lucille was nodding as though commuting this conversation to memory. But then she stopped and her brows furrowed. "If you don't speak for them, then how did you sign the Treaty of Watermill for them?"

"We had already discussed the question of citizenship before then. They were agreeable for the most part, so long as I was the one becoming Lord Admiral.”

To her surprise, Lucille laughed. It was a soft rueful sound, and she shook her head as she lifted the cup of tea to her mouth for another sip. 

“What’s so funny?” Jaina asked.

Lucille gestured towards Jaina with her cup. "You. How long have we known each other?"

It was a rhetorical question, and still Jaina found herself floundering for an answer. "Well -" she started to say.

"Twenty-nine years this winter," Lucille answered herself. She spoke in a very matter-of-fact manner. Neither judging nor angry. "I fancy you my closest friend. I always have. And I probably always will. And yet, I feel like I don't know you at all. Every time I feel like I know everything there is to know about you, you manage to reveal something new."

"Isn't that just what life is?" Jaina tried to smile weakly, to make this into a joke. 

Lucille hummed a thoughtful note. "Mmm. Maybe. Sometimes I just wish you would tell me what was going on."

Jaina laughed and gestured to herself with one hand. "I'm here for an update right now, aren't I?"

"I mean -- what's _ really _ going on. You’re the same as ever. Always out with the Tide collecting secrets, as my mother used to say."

Shuffling forward somewhat so that her elbows leaned upon her knees, Jaina said, "Tell me what you want to know, then."

For a moment Lucille did not answer. She polished off the last of her tea, studying Jaina with dark eyes all the while. She had always been beautiful in a traditional reserved kind of way. Like one of the mute paintings that hung along the staircase of Waycrest Manor which followed passers-by with black and lingering gazes, too still yet too alive all at once. 

Finally, Lucille set aside her cup and saucer in a clink of porcelain and said, "You never did tell us why you were so keen for a deal with the Alliance. I’m not one to question your rationale -- you’re so much smarter than me. Always have been. And at the time, I thought you were simply trying to play the Alliance and the Horde off against one another for some greater prize. But after watching you with Sylvanas -- well. Now, I am not so sure what your motives are anymore. I can’t see the game you’re playing. Perhaps I never will. What do we stand to gain from this?"

Jaina could feel the chill return to the room, as though one of the peaked and arched windows had been flung open and a wind had torn across the beams. She opened her mouth to reply, but could make no sound. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and finally said, “I told you and Alfred and Priscilla. Keeping Kul Tiras neutral is of utmost import to our survival.”

Lucille’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Right,” she said, sounding unconvinced by the answer. Disappointed even. 

“The Faction War is a poison,” Jaina insisted. “It infects everything it touches. If it comes here, it will eat us alive.”

Tapping her fingers against the arm of her chair, Lucille seemed to mull over those words. Then she said very abruptly, “I know you all think I’m weak and stupid -”

“I don’t -!” 

“- but I’m doing my best for Drustvar. And if something is going to impact my people, then I want to know about it.”

“Nothing is going to happen to your people,” Jaina said with as much sincerity as she could muster.

“Hmm,” Lucille said dubiously.

“I am the last person who would allow harm to come to Drustvar.”

“I know. And do you think I wouldn’t do everything within my power to protect the Drust?”

“Of course not!” said Jaina, stung at the notion.

“Then why are you keeping me in the dark? Still? After all this time?”

“Not everything is about how much I trust or don’t trust you. Because I do trust you, Lucille. More than nearly anyone else.” 

For a moment it seemed Lucille would argue. Her mouth was pinched and her brows furrowed. But then, gradually, incrementally, her face relaxed into a warm if rueful smile. She reached out and clasped Jaina’s hand, twining their fingers together. “You have my life and loyalty, Jaina, for as long as you wish it. I only ask that you have a care for it.”

“I do.” Jaina squeezed her hand in return, hoping that she could impart her convictions through touch alone. “And I will. Always.” 

Finally, the smile seemed to reach Lucille’s eyes. She rocked Jaina’s hand back and forth before slipping their fingers free and sitting back in her chair. 

“Goodness!” she said, that veneer settling back over her. “You haven’t even touched a single cake! My kitchen staff will flay me alive if they see leftovers, you know. I told them the Lord Admiral adores sweets, and they baked this all in the hopes that you would eat it. Though -- now that I think about it -- they’ll be thrilled when the Drust come to visit, if what you told me is true.”

In truth, between the two of them Lucille had always been the one with a sweet-tooth. Still Jaina huffed with laughter and gamely reached for a cake. 

* * *

* * *

She sees herself turning her back on a man she has never met as he puts a city she has never visited to the sword. Her own cowardice makes her feel sick. The smell of smoke rises, cooked meat, and behind her she can hear screaming.

She sees the mana bomb fall from the sky, dropped from a zeppelin flying Horde colours onto an achingly familiar island nation. The world crumbles in its wake, flecking into ash, then a searing white that burns away all else. The remains of the city are naught but a smoking crater in the ground, charred black with debris. There are no bodies. Not even bones remain. 

She sees red Zandalari sails mustering on the horizon. The fire of their mortar guns turning Alliance ships to flotsam that slowly sinks beneath the waves. The screams of sailors fill the air.

She sees herself leading Kul Tiran hulls to besiege the Golden City of Dazar’alor. The Great Seal turns beneath a blood red moon, and a desperate king makes a pact with a god of death to drive her back. 

She does not know whether these things happen in order, or whether they are separate futures threaded together by Gorak Tul to show her what could be, what ought to be. But whatever future this is, Jaina wants no part of it. 

Jaina tries to turn her head aside, but she can’t move. She doesn’t want to see this. Her chest flares with pain. Perhaps it is her heart. More likely it is the sword trapped between her ribs. Gorak Tul’s hand grasps her by the jaw. The glide of his claws across her face makes her flinch, but he only swings her body back around from where she hung suspended by a length of bloodied rope, so that she cannot glance away from the vision of a future that she prays will never come. 

“Your ancestors wiped out my people with silver and fire. Imagine what horrors they could have wrought with this instead,” he tells her, and his voice is like the wind through winter-blackened boughs. “But even this could not kill me. No power can save you.” 

He strokes the backs of his fingers against her cheek, and she can’t even jerk away from the caress. She can’t move at all. No sound. No motion. Only a cold dead awareness in the bleak silence of Thros.

* * *

* * *

Arthur wanted to go to the Undercity to meet with an Apothecary. Jaina sent yet another letter to Orgrimmar to arrange it with Sylvanas, who did not reply back directly but through Nathanos. (Typical). 

Arthur left. When he returned to Kul Tiras weeks later, he reeked of necromancy and sewerage, but his step was feather-light and his plumage dark and glossy.

Meanwhile Jaina pondered the idea of using him as a political tool. A pair of eyes in the heart of a Horde stronghold. She quickly dismissed the idea. 

* * *

The last time Jaina could remember visiting Orgrimmar, she had been about to destroy it. Of course, that never happened in this lifetime, but the memory clung to her nonetheless. 

She had been a different person, then. Full of fire and fury. The sea had risen at her command, ready to swallow the city and all its inhabitants whole. It had looked so different from up high -- smaller. Toy-like. Like a miniature box set her brothers had enjoyed playing with when she was a small child. Her mother had forbade her from going near them -- which of course she ignored -- always prising painted wooden pieces from Jaina's mouth when she tried to gnaw on them. 

Now, the city seemed larger than life. She walked through the valley and the cliffs curled above her like a ribcage. The sandstone was red as an organ. Orgrimmar felt alive in a unique way. All salt and sweat, dust and heat. It was loud and bustling and gruff. People barely noticed her in the tumult, even surrounded by Proudmoore guardsmen who part the way for her advance through the city. 

It was an odd feeling, blending in. Not that she looked the part. Jaina wore her full Admiralty finery, and was paying the price for her hubris -- it was far too hot for this sort of clothing. She had seriously been questioning her choice in wardrobe ever since she stepped off the Restoration. Needs must, however. Official state visits required formality. Especially where the Horde was concerned. 

A brave hawker with a food stall even tried to offer Jaina what appeared to be a roasted rat on a stick. She had to wave aside her guards when the orc approached her. He seemed completely unfased by both the guardsmen’s devotion and when she demurred the food, already turning to the next passerby and attempting to foist his wares upon them. As she continued walking, she noticed from the corner of her eye one of her retinue purchasing one of the snacks with a clandestine exchange of copper coins. 

The entrance to the fortress of Grommash Hold was flanked by the massive tusks of some unnamed creature. They were lashed in place with thick rope. The fortress itself was squat and round. Despite its circular shape it was sharp. Long thick spears of sharpened wood protruded from the tiered rooftops. As Jaina walked through the gate, she looked up. A spiked portcullis was suspended by chains overhead, ready to come crashing down at a moment’s notice. 

Armoured orcish guards greeted her as she entered to check her for any weapons. She gave up her ceremonial sword. When she lifted her arms for a pat down, one of the guards shook his head and waved her further inside. Her guardsmen did not enter with her, and instead turned sharply about face and marched back down the steps to wait for her outside. 

Inside was like a stomach. Dark and membrane-red. The large inner dome’s ceiling arching like a bloodied rib cage. The space was dimly lit with caged lanterns that bore not flame but glowing embers. And on the far side of the main circular chamber Sylvanas sprawled upon a massive throne. Overhead was the skull of a four-tusked mammoth draped with the scarlet banner of the Horde.

There were no other people in the chamber. A silence lingered like the heat as Jaina crossed the circular room to stand at the base of the dais leading up to the low-slung throne. 

Sylvanas watched her approach with a hawk-like unblinking stare. "Lord Admiral," she said in a voice like velvet across the hand. "You bless me with your presence."

Jaina's spine stiffened at the cold and mocking tone. She inclined her head, careful to maintain eye contact. If it was a staring contest, she had no hope of winning against a living corpse. "Thank you for receiving me."

"I understand you came attended by a few merchant ships as well. How nice of you to not simply show up on my shores in a military vessel," Sylvanas drawled. "It's almost like you're making an effort.

Jaina had to keep herself from scowling. Even so, she tucked her hands behind her back so that Sylvanas couldn't see the way they clenched into fists. "My flag and its squadron are also acting as escorts for the Ashvane merchantmen."

"Ah, yes. Of course. And how is Lady Ashvane?"

"She is well."

"Not causing you any more trouble, I hope?"

"Define 'trouble.'"

Sylvanas laughed lightly but the sound held no real mirth. "I see the Admiralty is proving just as cosy a position as you had hoped."

"Hardly." 

In a smooth abrupt motion, Sylvanas rose to her feet. She descended the steps almost languidly, as though she had all the time in the world. In spite of herself, Jaina found herself holding her breath when Sylvanas drew close. Even standing shorter by a good amount, she always managed to command a room's attention, and she had Jaina's fully. 

Jaina did not move as Sylvanas circled her once in a very vulture-like manner. Oddly, it felt like being back on the dance floor. Or perhaps that was just the waltz's melody that she could never quite shake from the back of her mind. 

"So, tell me," Sylvanas said, coming to a halt before her. "Why have you come here? Your letter was as lacklustre as the last."

It shouldn’t have given her a small thrill knowing that Sylvanas had actually read her letters. There had always been a lingering doubt that Nathanos had been instructed to screen everything from Kul Tiras and send replies without telling his Queen. But this was different. A crumb of hope. 

“I’ve been invited to Darnassus,” Jaina began.

“I understand invitations there are exceedingly rare. I hope you didn’t have to appeal too much to His Majesty’s goodwill.” 

Ignoring that little fishing expedition, Jaina continued, “- and as part of my visit, I thought it best to make it worthwhile to the merchant fleet as well. To make things fair, I wanted to come here and offer you a gift. One whole hull’s worth of trade goods.” She inclined her head slightly. “Consider it a show of good faith.” 

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow at her. “I can’t believe that Priscilla would have allowed you to give an entire shipment of goods to the Horde for free.” 

“She didn’t,” Jaina said. “The Admiralty bought the goods so that House Ashvane would not be out of pocket.”

“So, the Admiralty is out of pocket instead?” Sylvanas tsked, tapping her tongue against the back of her teeth in a staccato rhythm. “How very unwise of you, Lord Admiral.” 

“It is a diplomatic gift. It is meant to be a display of my honest intentions, not my financial acumen.” 

“A small island nation like yours cannot afford such extravagant gifts to both the Horde and the Alliance. You should take more care. Rest upon your formalities.” 

Jaina recognised bait when she saw it. There was no way she was going to tell Sylvanas that she hadn’t offered the Alliance the same gift. If she did, she would never hear the end of it. Then again, if Sylvanas were fishing for that kind of information, then that meant her own spies did not know the answer. Or she was just playing dumb, hoping to goad Jaina into revealing that information herself. 

Instead, Jaina held her ground and said, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?” 

“Rest upon formalities.” 

“And I wish you would. Or is this what you really want? To throw all caution to the wind?” Leaning close, Sylvanas reached out, her hand slipping beneath the heavy fabric of Jaina’s greatcoat to rest gently against her waist. Even that simple touch made Jaina’s breath catch in her chest. When Sylvanas stroked her thumb against Jaina’s hip, her clawed gauntlet caught on the fabric. “I could be amenable to such an arrangement.”

It felt like another test. Like she was being, once again, set up to fail. 

It would be easy to kiss her, to give in and let go. But it would also be the wrong choice, setting them down a path of mutual destruction that would end only in tears and blood. 

Grasping Sylvanas’ wrist, Jaina gently pulled her hand away. “This isn’t what I want from you.”

Disappointment and displeasure and -- finally -- feigned disinterest hardened Sylvanas’ face. She tugged her hand free and stepped back. “Enough with the games then, and tell me why you’re really here.” 

“To be frank, I have a favour to ask of you.”

Sylvanas barked out a laugh. "You really have some gall."

"Not for free obviously," said Jaina. 

"Of course not. You wouldn't give me anything for nothing."

Shooting her an irritable look, Jaina said, "If I try offering you something for nothing, you would think I was pitying you, and you would resent me for it. And when I offer you a trade, you accuse me of being ungrateful and rapacious. I really can't win here."

Sylvanas' eyes glowed red as a furnace. She bared her teeth in a smile, "Feels bad, doesn't it?"

With a huff, Jaina said, "Kul Tiras is considering opening a new trade route between Quel'Thalas and Darnassus. Do you want a share in the expedition, or not?"

"In case you have forgotten, I have ships at my own disposal already."

"Of course you do. But they're manned by Goblins and Trolls accustomed to tropical climates. This route goes just shy of Northrend and is, so I've been told, 'eighteen months of freezing your arse off at sea.' And most importantly," Jaina added. “the Night Elves won’t let you dock at Rut’theran.”

"So," Sylvanas said in a voice so silky it was almost a purr. It was, Jaina knew from experience, her most dangerous tone. "Not only do you stab me in the back and accuse me of being a war profiteer, but now you want to be a middle man."

"That's not what I -!" 

Jaina shut her mouth so hard she could hear the click of her teeth. Sylvanas looked unbearably smug at being able to get a rise out of her. Jaina didn't know what would have been worse: slapping that look from her face or kissing her. Surely both would have resulted in disaster. 

Steadying herself with a deep breath, Jaina said, "I have already slackened tariffs for the Horde in Kul Tiras."

"Yes, I noticed. How charitable of you," Sylvanas sneered. "Tell me your price for this venture, then. What more do you want from me?"

Jaina had to bite back to urge to do and say something very unwise. Instead she said, "Ten percent."

Immediately Sylvanas shot back, "Four."

"You know I can't take back a deal like that. Priscilla would flay me alive."

Sylvanas lifted one shoulder in a lofty shrug. "That sounds like your problem. Not mine."

Pursing her lips, Jaina said, "Seven percent."

_ "Four,” _ Sylvanas repeated.

“That’s not how negotiations work.”

“I’m not negotiating. I’m telling you that I will only accept a four percent margin.” 

Jaina opened her mouth to retort, thought better of it, sighed, then said, “Fine.”

The effect was immediate. All interest Sylvanas had previously displayed vanished, and Jaina felt like a piece of dusty furniture. She turned and climbed back up the dais, not glancing back as she rose step by step. "Have your people send through the paperwork. I’ll see that it is done. Is that all?"

Jaina faltered. She had expected the negotiations to take longer, for Sylvanas to haggle over every excruciating detail for hours -- days, perhaps -- until Jaina was exhausted. She fumbled for a response. "Well, I - I mean, I was rather hoping to see a few sights while I was here."

Sylvanas dropped onto the throne with an elegance Jaina envied. She lifted an indifferent eyebrow, and said, "Then hire a tour guide. I am very busy.” 

As if on cue, the sound of marching footsteps. Jaina’s shoulders tensed. Into the chamber strode a dozen orcs in heavy armour lavished with spikes and streaks of what she hoped was red paint. They fanned out between Jaina and the throne, as though protecting their Warchief from an attack. Jaina held her ground, eyes darting about warily. 

Sylvanas watched her reaction with an expression of cold, detached satisfaction. “Escort the Lord Admiral out,” she ordered. “We are finished here.” 

* * *

She did hire a tour guide. The goblin charged her an outrageous sum for a simple walk around The Drag and the Valley of Strength. He insisted on additional charges for her to enter certain buildings, and at the end of it all he took her to lunch at a dive bar that was clearly owned by one of his family members. 

She did not mind. She paid him and let him think her a fool for parting with so much coin.

* * *

When Jaina returned from Orgrimmar, Katherine was there at the gates of Proudmoore Keep to greet her. She stood as straight-backed and unyielding as ever. Her face was a picture of cold iron, her hand tight around the silver head of her cane. Guardsmen in Proudmoore colours flanked the doors, their kettle helms faintly gleaming as the sun made a rare sighting in Boralus through a bank of grey clouds. 

Jaina looked up as she climbed the stairs to the gates, and her step faltered. Her mother wore a flinty expression, coldly watching Jaina’s approach.

“So,” Katherine said. “My wayward daughter returns home. How was your trip?”

This wasn’t how it went. This was all wrong. Jaina could remember this scene so vividly. Coming home full of anger and dread in equal portions. The back of her neck stung with the phantom memory of her mother tearing a pendant from her so hard that the chain snapped.  _ ‘Do what you will. She is nothing to me.’ _

Jaina had to force herself to keep moving forward. The soles of her shoes were leaden against every stone step as though she were climbing the gallows stairs. She swallowed past a sudden restriction of air. 

"I am awake," she whispered to herself. "I am awake.  I am awake. _ I am -" _

"What's that, my dear?"

She had finally reached the top step. Clearing her throat, Jaina shook her head and said, “Nothing. The trip was fine, thank you.” 

Katherine tilted her head to one side, silently inspecting her daughter’s pallor. “But not the rip-roaring success you were hoping for, I see.” 

A sympathetic smile broke through Katherine’s usual stern veneer. The corners of her eyes crinkled. She gestured for Jaina to come inside after her. She even went so far as to rest a hesitant hand against Jaina’s shoulder when she drew near enough. Not for very long however. They weren’t quite there yet. Still, it was better than being greeted with manacles and a death sentence. 

Relaxing somewhat, Jaina walked at her mother’s side. She had to shorten her stride so as not to outpace her. “I think it would be an overstatement to say I expected anything more than what I got. She is still angry with me. Not that I blame her.” 

Katherine gave her a quick and awkward pat on the shoulder before lowering her hand. “Give her time. She will be pleased to see that the Horde are being received here very well, all things considered. You know I saw a very well patronised Zandalari goldsmith down in the Tradewind Markets the other day.”

“I’m sure they were.”

That wasn’t a stretch of the imagination. Of all the Horde members, the Zandalari were perhaps the most like Kul Tirans. Though mentioning that to either would likely earn her a brawl on the streets. 

“And the gift?” Katherine asked. 

Jaina simply sighed as she handed over her greatcoat to the steward in the entryway to the Keep. “She wouldn’t accept it.”

At that, Katherine frowned. “Who turns down a gift like that?” she asked, bewildered. 

“Sylvanas Windrunner, apparently.” 

With a sniff, Katherine continued walking along, her cane rapping officiously against the stone floor. “You were overly generous, then.” 

“Any generosity is too much,” Jaina muttered darkly. 

“Well, she is rather proud. You two have that in common.” 

“Thanks.” 

“At least Priscilla will be thrilled,” Katherine said, turning down a corridor. “She got quite a good deal from the Admiralty on that cargo. And now the establishment of a new trade route to boot.” 

Jaina winced. “About that…”

Katherine’s limping gait slowed and she glanced over at her daughter. When she saw the expression on Jaina’s face, she stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Oh, dear. What did you do this time?” 

“Why does everything have to be my fault all of the time?” Jaina asked, exasperated.

“You are the Lord Admiral now,” Katherine pointed at Jaina with her cane, very calm and matter-of-fact. “That makes everything your fault.” 

“I can see why you were so keen to give up the role.” 

“And not a moment too soon, either. All the Admiralty ever gave me was heartbreak and shrapnel. I’m too old for that kind of excitement in my life.” Katherine made an impatient little gesture. “Now, what happened?” 

With a grimace, Jaina admitted, “I may have negotiated a four percent deal on that new northern trade route.” 

_ “Four percent?”  _

“I know.”

“Priscilla is going to have kittens.” 

_ “I know,”  _ Jaina repeated.

Katherine clucked her tongue, then continued walking. “Thank the Tides I’m not allowed to attend the meeting of Great Houses anymore. I would hate to be there tomorrow morning when she receives the news.” 

Rubbing at her brow, Jaina groaned. “Don’t remind me. Please.” 

“Unless you have another Watermill Hill up your sleeve. You might get out of it, then.” 

“I’m fresh out of besieged castles at the moment, unfortunately,” Jaina said dryly. 

“What a pity.” 

They walked on in silence for a few moments. Katherine was one of the few people Jaina knew who was truly comfortable in silence. She never seemed to feel the need to fill up space with words. Quite unlike Lucille, who could not abide silences whatsoever. 

They were nearing Katherine’s preferred sitting room. Jaina was about to suggest they call for a pot of tea to share before the fire, when her mother spoke instead. 

"One thing I still don't really understand," Katherine mused aloud, "is how you knew Priscilla would come to Fallhaven."

With her hand on the door, Jaina paused. 

She had promised her mother that she would try to be more forthcoming, more open. And that it would be reciprocated, that Katherine would try to be less distant, more demonstrative. Frankly, neither of them were succeeding. Though they were trying. And it was getting better. Slowly.

For a brief mad instant, Jaina contemplated actually telling her mother the truth about this. That she saw Priscilla in The Dream. That she had seen the future in all its gnarled and tangled glory. That she had seen other potentialities that had not yet come to pass, that would never come to pass. A mirrored loom woven by a host of madmen. 

The Drust understood. They may not have known exactly what had passed in Thros, but they knew enough. A High Thornspeaker’s role was not to be a leader -- not in the way Kul Tirans would understand it -- but to be a teacher. To possess knowledge and share it like a treasure amongst them, so that they might all be enriched.

But this was not the Crimson Forest. And her mother would not -- for all her efforts -- accept the truth for what it was, and the future for what it wasn’t. 

In the end, Jaina smiled weakly and said, “I just had a feeling.” She opened the door. “Shall we call for a pot of tea?”

* * *

Jaina was in a meeting in Stormsong Valley when she felt it. Mayor Roz was showing her around Brennadam. They were discussing the possibility of building a warehouse in one of the nearby fields so that they could process more wool for export. Roz was pleasant company -- a far cry from the meetings Jaina was accustomed to, where various merchant lords or monastic officials yelled at her for her latest policies. 

"With more help from the Admiralty, we could use extra barges to -" Roz paused and gave Jaina a funny look. "Is everything all right?" 

Jaina blinked. "I'm fine. Thank you. I just -"

There. That feeling again. Her head jerked and she frowned towards the mountain ranges in the southeast. Beyond their perennially snow-capped peaks lay Drustvar. 

The feeling was persistent. It was like someone pulling gently at her braid, a soft yank at the back of her head, nagging her. The ward on her cabin was being trespassed upon. When it had first happened moments ago, she had assumed an animal had strayed across the property too close to her house, and hadn't given it another thought. The wards would give an animal a harmless little flick, encouraging it to leave. 

But it obviously hadn't left. Which meant that it wasn't an animal at all. 

"Forgive me, but I must check on something," Jaina said.

"Of course. Do you need to borrow a horse? Or -?"

"No need. Thank you." 

Reaching out, Jaina sketched a rune into the air, which sliced downward and rotated, flattening out and expanding into a disk shape before her. Roz stared, taking a few hurried steps back. 

"I"ll return soon," Jaina assured her. "I want to hear more about those barges." 

Before Roz could reply, Jaina stepped through the portal. It winked shut behind her. 

Stormsong Valley was colder than Drustvar, but the air here always seemed heavier. The day was uncharacteristically fine. The wind blustered against the cliffs, while far below the sea crashed. 

"Tavery?" Jaina hazarded. When there was no response, she tried again, "Adalyn?"

Jaina looked around, seeking out her intruder. The cabin door was shut. Nobody had tried to force entry. Or if they had, then they'd failed. That gentle tug returned, and Jaina raised her voice, "I know you're here. There is no use hiding."

"I am not hiding."

Starting in surprise, Jaina whirled around. There, leaning against the side of the cabin, was Sylvanas. Her arms were crossed. Her ears were slanted back and her eyes burned. 

"Oh." For a moment Jaina floundered for what to say. "Why are you here?"

Not moving from her spot in the shadow of the thatched eaves, Sylvanas said, "You stopped writing to me." 

Face screwing up in confusion, Jaina said, "What?"

In answer, Sylvanas pulled out a singed and folded piece of parchment. With two fingers, she flicked it so that the letter tumbled through the air in Jaina's direction, landing on the grassy ground between them.

Jaina took a few steps forward and bent down to retrieve it. Unfolding the parchment, she read its contents. 

It was her last letter to Sylvanas. Sent over two months ago. Jaina had written a dry update about Kul Tiras' latest discussions with the Broken Isles regarding some minor piracy activity that had taken a vessel from Azsuna hostage. Both Suramar and Kul Tiras had tracked down the vessel in question and dealt with the pirates. 

At the time, Jaina had been quite proud of the shared victory, small though it may have been. Certainly the Nightborne Captain had been appreciative of Kul Tiras' eagerness to help keep international waters safe. 

But, of course, Sylvanas had not replied. And Jaina was tired of stony silences that spoke more than words. 

"I didn't think you even read these," said Jaina, waving the creased page. 

"I do."

"Then I shall write to you again," Jaina said, the last syllable lilting upwards as though in a question.

"Good."

Silence fell between them for a moment. Gesturing towards the front door of the cabin, Jaina dared to ask, "Would you like to come in?"

Sylvanas’ face darkened. "No."

And then, Sylvanas tapped the token in her hand. She vanished in a whirl of magic of Jaina’s own making.

Jaina stared at the empty space where Sylvanas had stood not a moment before. Then she announced to the empty air, "What the hell?"

She frowned down at the ground where she had drawn the rune corresponding to the token in Sylvanas’ possession. She could wipe that magic away. She could make it so that Sylvanas could never return here so freely.

She didn’t. 

It was only an hour or so later, after she had sat down in her cabin for a cup of tea and a think about what had just happened, that Jaina realised Roz was still waiting for her back in Brennadam. 

* * *

When she tried to sleep, the skull mask would whisper to her. It collected secrets through the ages, secrets lost to time and destruction, secrets that slipped through the cracks of history, secrets from realities that never came to pass, secrets that merely echoed in this life, secrets that murmured like the waves, like the rustle of leaves, like the shadow of moonlight through the trees. Jaina would chase after them, hands outstretched, blindly stumbling into the wicked undertow, and The Dream would drag her down, down into the drowning dark. 

* * *

The last thing Jaina expected to hear upon entering her rooms at Proudmoore Keep was crying. She had been taking off her coat for the evening -- tired after a long day spent on her feet -- but paused in the westernmost parlour when she first heard the sound. There was evidence that people had recently been through here. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Everything smelled fresh, and the surfaces had been wiped clean.

Slinging her coat over the back of a chair, Jaina followed the noise towards her bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Through it she could hear someone speaking through their tears.

"Take it off! Martha, please! Stop! You're scaring me!"

Frowning, Jaina pushed the door open and stepped inside. A maid glanced over fearfully, her face red and streaked with tears. She was clutching a tiny paring knife from the kitchens in her hands, her eyes wide and dark. And at her feet another maid was crouched on all fours.

Jaina drew in a sharp breath. A familiar antlered skull mask was set over the woman's face. Her sleeves were in ribbons and streaked red, as though clawed bare. She was drawing symbols on the carpet in her own blood. A hollow droning murmur filled the air around her, spoken in an ancient long-forgotten tongue.

"She won't listen to me," the maid gasped, her lower lip trembling. "The - The trunk opened itself when we came in. I swear it, Lord Admiral."

A quick dart of Jaina's eyes proved that the trunk at the foot of her bed had indeed been opened. Its lid was still propped up towards the ceiling.

The maid continued babbling, backing away from her friend on the floor as though afraid she might catch a sickness. "I told her to shut it, but she said it was - was talking to her. Said it wanted her to 'let him in.' And then she took out the knife and I only just managed to wrestle it from her when she -"

Jaina raised her hands and said gently but firmly, "I understand. What is your name?"

"Alice."

"All right, Alice. Is your friend from Drustvar?"

Alice nodded. "Carver's Harbour."

That explained it. Jaina sighed and began rolling up the sleeves of her shirt past her elbow. She studied the symbols Martha was drawing on the carpet, tilting her head to read them more clearly.

A summoning circle. Meant to pierce the veil to a very familiar part of The Dream, one Jaina visited nearly every night.

"How long has she been like this?"

"I'm not sure, exactly," Alice answered. "Near on fifteen minutes, now?"

With a nod of understanding, Jaina took a step forward.

"Ma'am -?"

Jaina stopped and looked over at Alice, who was fiddling anxiously with the knife.

"What's -?" Alice has to swallow before she could ask, "What's wrong with her? What is that thing?"

"Your friend is being possessed," said Jaina. "I'm going to break her free. I may need your help."

"But I'm not a Tidesage."

"No. But you have a strong pair of arms. I might need them. Just stand there until I tell you to do otherwise."

Once Alice had nodded, Jaina turned back towards Martha. She was raking her fingernails down the soft skin of her inner arm to draw more blood, painting her fingertips bright and red and trembling. Jaina crouched down before her, hands resting on her knees as she got a better look.

The eye sockets of the mask were blazing with pinpricks of pale fire. Martha seemed to not realise there were other people nearby, working continuously almost mechanically, her limbs jerking as though she were being guided with string. 

“Martha, I know you can hear me,” Jaina began. “I need you to think of a tree. It’s summer. Warm and still. You’re lying under the tree, and you’re looking up at the leaves and counting them. Can you count them for me?”

That droning chant continued unerringly as Martha drew on the ground.

“I’ll take that as a  _ ‘yes,’” _ Jaina muttered under her breath. Holding out her hand towards Alice without looking at her, she said, “The knife. Please.”

Hesitantly, Alice stepped forward just enough to pass the little knife over to her. Then she scampered back towards the other end of the room, as far from them as she could be without leaving. 

Taking the knife in one hand, Jaina dragged its edge in a quick slice across the back of one of her forearms. Blood welled up. She palmed the knife in her hand and with two fingers dipped in blood, drew a rune on her forehead. It dripped down the bridge of her nose. A whispered spell was on her lips. When she reached out towards the skull mask, the maid tried to jerk away. 

Jaina snatched one of the antlers in one hand, holding her steady as she quickly sketched the same rune onto the forehead of the skull. A high pitched noise seemed to be emanating from the mask, growing louder. Outside night had already swept across the land, but the room grew suddenly dark, lanterns sputtering out in a wisp of smoke. Every exhalation shivered before Jaina's mouth in a white plume as the air grew cold, cold enough to make her stomach clench, cold enough that when she drew breath it stung in her lungs. 

The maid began to thrash in Jaina's grasp, but no matter how much she tried to wrench away she could not escape. The high pitched noise rose to a scream. Jaina was pulling on the mask with a steady pressure, but it was fixed in place, as though the bone had fused to its new bearer's face. 

The bloody runes on the skull's forehead began to sear with light, hot and bright. And slowly the mask started to pull away. Jaina's fingers ached trying to maintain her hold on it. Edges of bone dug into the groves of her hands. She tried to get a better grip, and the skull nearly snapped back into place. She continued to whisper the spell, over and over, until it drowned out all other noise, until the ground around them was patterned with frost, until -- at last -- she pulled the mask free. 

Suddenly Martha slumped to the ground, and Jaina rocked back. Jaina set the skull and knife aside, and leaned forward to check if she was alright. Her pulse was thready, but there. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jaina pushed herself upright and gestured towards Alice. "Help me get her to the bed."

Alice, who had been cowering in a corner, eyes wide, took a moment to respond. Then she rushed forward and lifted Martha's legs with shaking hands. By the time they had settled her on the feather mattress, Martha was groaning and furrowing her brow. 

Jaina carded her dark hair back from her brow and said, "Are you still counting?"

For a moment it seemed Martha would not respond, but then she drew in a rattling breath and whispered, "Four hundred and thirty two. Four hundred and thirty three. Four hundred and -"

"Good, good. Keep counting."

Alice stared at them. "But it didn't take that long to get it off."

Jaina tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it felt like a weak attempt. "No. It didn't." 

Straightening, Jaina drew the back of her hand across her face. It came up streaked with red. With a grimace, she wiped it off on her white breeches, not caring that it stained the fabric. 

"What happens now?" Alice asked.

Martha still hadn't opened her eyes. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. The skin of her face was slowly growing less mottled the longer she was free. The air no longer held the bite of death, but they were still plunged into darkness. 

Jaina waved her hand, and the lanterns sputtered to life. Alice squeaked, grasping Martha's inert hand until she realised what had happened.

"She will need rest," Jaina said. "I recommend minimal physical activity for a week or so. But she shouldn't be alone. Keep her company. Make sure she feels safe."

Nodding, Alice kept a hold of Martha's hand. "Right. I'll move her back to -"

But Jaina waved that notion away. "No. Don't bother. You two can stay here for the night. I'll sleep on the couch in the parlour, so I can remain close by if you need me.”

She turned. The skull mask sat in the middle of the unfinished summoning circle like a grim effigy. Jaina bent down and picked it up, settling it beneath her arm. There it was a comfortable weight, balanced against her hip. 

When she turned back around, Alice had pressed herself against the mattress in an attempt to shy away from the mask. She eyed it warily, her gaze travelling up to Jaina’s face.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am. But you never did tell me -- what is that thing?”

In reply, Jaina forced a smile. With her free hand she gestured towards the bed, and said, “She will have very vivid dreams. For a very long time. Possibly the rest of her life. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that.” 

And without another word, Jaina strode from the room. She shut the door behind her and sighed. The fireplace was still lit, casting the room in an eerie flickering glow. Jaina’s arm throbbed unpleasantly. She could have it healed in the morning, when she would ask Adalyn to come heal Martha and ensure she wouldn’t have a follow up incident.

A whisper threaded its way through the air like a coil of smoke. Jaina lifted the skull in her hands and looked down at it. 

“What am I going to do with you?” she murmured softly.

The skull did not answer.

* * *

Jaina got thick iron chains to wrap around the trunk, and locked the skull mask inside. She banned anyone from going into her rooms beyond the parlours when she wasn’t present. 

There were no more incidents, but some mornings she would wake up to find the chains unraveled and the trunk open. 

* * *

Jaina held the pen over its inkwell. A fat swell of ink bulged at the nib. Frowning, she tapped the ink away, the quill clinking against the dark-stained glass. It helped very little. A few minutes later, and she was still holding the quill, unable to write a single word. The blank bit of parchment spread out on the table mocked her with its emptiness.

What was she supposed to talk about? Clearly no reply would be given to matters of state or officious drudgery. And the worst part was that Jaina’s life had become nothing but officious drudgery. But writing to Sylvanas of personal thoughts and feelings was far more dangerous than talk of the latest shipwrights' designs or the reconstruction work at Fort Daelin. 

Finally with a sigh, Jaina scribbled the first thing she could think of:

_ 'I don't know why I'm writing this if you're not going to respond. Do you just want me to know that you're angry and ignoring me?' _

The words glistened black upon the page. Just two sentences. Hardly worth the price of postage, even with the vast resources of the Admiralty at her disposal.

It was petty. And stupid. And she shouldn’t send it. 

So, of course she did anyway. 

To her utter shock, a return letter actually found its way back into her hands a few weeks later. It was a scrap of folded parchment with a single word written in Sylvanas' hand.

_ 'Yes.' _

Jaina rolled her eyes. Her hands were already reaching for a quill and a fresh sheet of parchment to write a reply.

* * *

In The Dream, she never sees Sylvanas. Their paths never cross. They are, as Sylvanas said, strangers to one another.

* * *

The next time, there wasn’t a knock on the door so much as a hammering. As of an armoured fist clenched and pounding against the wood so that the door rattled against its hinges. 

Even with the web of magic cast across the area alerting her to any intrusion, Jaina was still startled by the noise. She nearly spilled tea all over herself. Swearing, she stood and set the cup aside to inspect the damage. Luckily no tea had gotten onto her book or robes. 

About once every other fortnight, Jaina would slip away from her duties in Boralus or abroad and return here to her cabin in Drustvar for a scant night’s worth of peace and quiet. Now, the hammering continued, and seemed to have no intention of relenting anytime soon. 

With a sullen mutter of curses under her breath, Jaina stalked over to the front door and wrenched it open. “Can’t you just tell me you’re coming over for a visit like a normal person? We have perfectly nice diplomatic quarters at Proudmoore Keep. You don’t have to keep using that token to come here.”

Just outside, Sylvanas glowered. Her eyes burned from beneath the shadow of her cowl. “What did you do?” 

Jaina blinked. “What did I do?” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific. I do a great many things all the time. I’m doing something right now, in fact.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Sylvanas snapped. 

“I really don’t.” 

_ “What did you do?”  _

Jaina glanced over Sylvanas’ shoulder. “Is this some sort of comedy sketch? Is Anya out there somewhere?” 

Sylvanas fumed. Then she said, “I just had His Majesty, High King Anduin Wrynn, approach me out of the blue and offer to withdraw from the Hillsbrad Foothills and Alterac Mountains, thereby ceding all sovereignty over those regions to the Horde.” 

There followed a long pause after that statement, as though Sylvanas were waiting for Jaina to say something.

“Well?” Sylvanas asked through grit teeth.

“Well,” Jaina said. “You must be very pleased.”

“I am thrilled,” said Sylvanas in a completely flat tone. 

"And what makes you think I had anything to do with this?"

"The Alliance wouldn't just wander up to me with major concessions in hand unless they had some other motive or impetus. Which means -” Sylvanas pointed at her, finger hovering a hair’s breadth away from Jaina’s chest,  _ “- you." _

Jaina arched an eyebrow at the accusatory finger. "Is that what they told you?" she asked, reaching up to push Sylvanas’ hand aside.

A muscle in Sylvanas' face twitched at the contact. "No," she said, snatching her hand away. "They haven't mentioned your name at all. But I know you better than that."

"Oh? I thought you didn't know me at all. I thought I was a stranger to you."

Sylvanas glared. “I know you did something.” Her expression darkened, going thoughtful and suspicious. "What did they give you during the civil war?”

"You told me you didn't care.”

Eyes narrowing, Sylvanas hissed, "I have decided that I do."

The cold was starting to leech through Jaina’s robes. “Can we talk about this inside?”

_ “No.”  _

With a disgruntled noise, Jaina crossed her arms in an effort to keep herself warm. "They gave me the same thing you did.”

"There were no Alliance soldiers or munitions in your army. I had my Rangers check. Thoroughly, I might add," Sylvanas said hotly. "There wasn't even a single brass coin in your coffers stamped with an Alliance insignia."

"That’s correct."

"Then we didn't give you the same thing."

"On the contrary,” said Jaina. “You both gave me the promise of peace. Except you gave it to me at a micro level, and they gave it to me at a macro level."

Sylvanas’ face screwed up in puzzlement. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

Jaina rubbed at her arms and shivered. “If we’re really going to discuss this right now, at least let me get a cloak.” 

"Why?"

"I just told you. Because it's cold."

"Stop playing the fool!" Sylvanas snapped. "Why would you ask the Alliance to give the Horde land that has nothing to do with Kul Tiras? What stake does Kul Tiras have in peace between the Horde and the Alliance?"

"In case you haven't noticed, your little faction war spreads across every continent the world over. The same world I happen to live in. Yes, I can afford to be neutral today, but what about tomorrow? What happens when either you or the Alliance show up on my doorstep with demands and swords instead of treaties and polite requests?"

"You weren't interested in 'our little faction war' when I visited you in the Crimson Forest."

"No, I wasn't," Jaina agreed. "But the very fact that you found me meant that it was only a matter of time until the faction war would follow in your wake. And I've seen what this war does to people. What it does to me. I couldn't have it here. Kul Tiras is fragile enough as it is. Another war like that would destroy us."

Sylvanas’ frown was not dark but contemplative. Then she said, “And why would the Alliance agree to this?” 

"You once told me that you thought peace only possible when there was nothing to be gained."

"I remember. And I stand by that statement."

Tilting her head to one side, Jaina said, “I just ensured they had something to gain by not fighting. And that it was greater than what they could gain through violence.” 

Sylvanas scoffed. “You are leaving out key information, as usual. Nothing is that easy.” 

“No,” Jaina agreed. “And I admit, not all of the members of the Alliance were very keen on the idea.”

“I imagine the dog needed to be brought to heel,” Sylvanas sneered. 

While Jaina did not strictly approve of calling Greymane a dog -- accurate though it may have been, technically speaking -- she did not deny the fact that Sylvanas was right. Instead she wrinkled her nose and made a small noise at the back of her throat. 

“I’ll let Anduin handle his constituents, and I’ll handle mine,” she said.

Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose. “So, he’s ‘Anduin’ now, is he?”

Rolling her eyes, Jaina sighed. “Let’s not go there. Please. I don’t need a pissing contest on my front lawn.” 

“What a shame. Because I would win.” 

Jaina gave her an unimpressed look, which rolled off Sylvanas like water from a duck’s back. "Anduin is a good man, who wants peace. And you -" Jaina hesitated before continuing. "The more time I spent with you, the more I thought that peace was a very real option. Though,” she added in a flat tone. “Now I’m beginning to wonder if I was wrong.” 

“I haven’t attacked him. I haven’t attacked anyone. Not since Watermill. Maybe you remember,” Sylvanas said. “How I bled for you. How I reinforced the walls of Watermill Castle and ensured your victory. Is this ringing any bells, Lord Admiral?” 

“Not this again. It’s too cold and too late for me to be having this conversation,” Jaina muttered under her breath. She rubbed at her face with her hands and groaned. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. You’ve already given it to me.”

“And what is that?”

“I finally understand the game being played.” With a mocking bow, Sylvanas said, “I’ll leave you to your peace and quiet. Until next time.” 

Jaina reached out her hand. “Wait -”

But she was already gone. 

* * *

* * *

Arthur isn't breathing when she drags him through the vast and woodless landscape of Thros. His body is heavy. Every step she takes feels like an eternity. She can't see properly. She isn't used to the lack of depth perception from only one eye. She can't bring Ulfar back with her. She can't carry both of them. She had dragged both their bodies behind her for an age until she was forced to give up and take only one. 

A streak of red follows in her shambling footsteps. She doesn't know how long it takes her to reach Gol Inath. Only that suddenly she is stumbling through the portal that leads to the chamber within the colossal tree. She falls through with a gasp. It is the first breath she has taken in what must be years, and it's so cold it stings her lungs. 

Staggering to her knees, Jaina catches herself with her hands on the ground and gasps. As though from a great distance, the sound of footsteps approaching. She barely registers that others have rushed down the long and winding steps leading from the ground above. Long shadows cast along the walls. She flinches from them and fumbles for Arthur.

His body has slumped to the ground beside her. With weak hands she heaves him onto his back and searches for any sign of life. 

It should work. She had done everything exactly as Ulfar had, every rune, every incantation down to the intonation. If she is breathing now, then he should be as well.

But Arthur's chest is still. No pulse flutters beneath his clammy skin.

"C'mon," she rasps, shaking his shoulder. The words feel like sandpaper scraping down her throat. Her tongue doesn't seem to want to move correctly to form sound.

There are whispers from those standing nearby, maintaining their distance as though she were the bearer of some plague. Someone is elected to approach her.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, and Adalyn's voice speaks softly, "Jaina, he's gone."

Jaina tightens her grip on his arms. The muscles beneath his skin are stiff and unyielding. His face is half-flayed on one side, revealing bone and teeth. 

She shakes her head. "No, I did everything right. It's going to work. He just needs a moment. Come on, Arthur." 

Jaina begins arranging his body as it had been in Thros when she had found him. Spread-eagled. Lungs ripped through his back and spread like wings. Fingers trembling, she sketches the runes again on the ground around him. They glow a ghostly hue. 

Adalyn's hand tightens at her shoulder, tries to tug her away. "This isn't how the story ends. Let him go."

Jaina shrugs Adalyn's hand from her shoulder, and snarls, "Don't touch me!" 

Adalyn recoils from whatever expression is on her face, but Jaina pays her no heed. Instead she rolls up her sleeves and crouches over him. "Wake up, Arthur. I know you can hear me. Wake up!" 

The whispers have grown to hushed mutters. Jaina is shaking his stiff and lifeless body. Her throat tightens. Something burns in her eyes, but all around her the air is cold. Her breath hangs in the air like a warm mockery. When still he doesn't breathe, she begins hitting his chest, as though she could beat the life back into his lungs. With every blow of her fists, ice spreads along the floor, an ice so cold it slicks the walls with frost. The words are raw and wounded and desperate, repeated over and over, "Wake up!  _ Wake up!" _

The runes sear bright against the dark earth. A flash of light that has her flinch and blinking away spots from her vision. Jaina's arms feel numb up to the elbow, a numbness so harsh it burns, as though she had plunged them into a midwinter lake in an attempt to pull something from the drowning deep. 

When she looks down, Arthur's eyes have snapped open, staring up at the ceiling. She laughs, relieved and incredulous, but the smile slowly slips away when his eyes dart to her, cold and filmy and colourless. 

And still he is not breathing. 

* * *

* * *

The next letter Jaina received from Orgrimmar was addressed not to her but to Sylvanas. With some confusion, brows furrowed, she read through it. 

Anduin’s florid prose was unmistakable. It was an invitation to a summit to be held at Dalaran under a banner of non-aggression. As Jaina read on, she grew more and more puzzled, thinking that perhaps this had been sent to her by mistake, until she unfolded the last section of the parchment, and another scrap of paper fluttered down to the floor.

Bending down, Jaina plucked it up from the ground. On it was written in Sylvanas’ distinct hand:  _ ‘You owe me a favour. -S’ _

* * *

It was with a sense of eerie familiarity that Jaina walked through the lilac-draped halls of Dalaran. Even though she had not visited often except as a rebellious teen, this place was known to her in a way she could not describe. The instructions had been to meet in the easternmost wing of the Violet Citadel, where a room would have been prepared for them well before their arrival. The moment she read the description, she knew where to find the place, and walked there unhindered. 

She had left her staff behind, leaning against a bedpost in Proudmoore Keep, but as she made her way through Dalaran now she felt odd not carrying a staff. There should have been an extra echo of noise accompanying her footsteps. Even the shape of her shadow wasn't quite right. The purple and pink stained glass window set her awash in a wine-coloured light, but her shadow lacked a certain drapery. Her hair should be down and she should have been wearing robes, not her Admiralty finery.

Her feet carried her unerringly towards her destination, and as she rounded a corner she saw two familiar figures standing before a door at the end of the corridor. Anduin Wrynn and Genn Greymane stopped whatever private conversation they were holding, and looked in her direction. Genn's expression was immediately guarded and suspicious, his storm-blue eyes narrowing and his nose twitching in a decidedly wolfish manner. On the other hand, Anduin smiled. 

"Lord Admiral," he greeted, "What a pleasant surprise! I was not aware Dalaran was one of your haunts as well."

Stopping before them, Jaina inclined her head. "I'm rather fond of the place. Though I can't say I've been here very often."

"More often than either of us.”

"Hardly a challenge," Greymane said. His voice always held a low, rumbling edge, as though it might slip into a snarl at any moment. 

"Genn doesn't like Dalaran," Anduin confided in a hushed tone that his advisor could still hear quite clearly.

"On the contrary," Greymane sniffed. "I think Dalaran is exactly where wizards ought to be. In the clouds. Far, far away from the rest of civilisation."

"Some of us like to get out and see the sights."

Greymane rolled his eyes at his king. "Only you would say a library is 'a sight.'"

"I would, if I could find it," Anduin groused good-naturedly. "I swear this place is a maze."

Pointing her hand back down the hall from which she had come, Jaina said, "Left, then your third right, straight ahead, and through the fourth portal on the wall to your left. Though, you'll need the incantation to get through. Unless you can break the wards or otherwise slip through them."

"Those are very specific directions for someone who claims they have not been here very often," Greymane said, watching her carefully.

Jaina cleared her throat. "Yes. Well. I, too, am excited by the idea of libraries."

It was not a lie. Not exactly. 

Maybe just a little one. 

Anduin appeared a bit wistful. "I would ask you to give me a tour, but unfortunately we have a rather important meeting to attend shortly. Perhaps afterwards?"

"I'd be delighted," said Jaina. And that time it was not a lie. 

"And why are you here?" Greymane asked. "Don't tell me it's for the library."

"Actually -" Jaina began.

"- I asked her to come."

Jaina closed her eyes as if praying. When she turned around, it was to find Sylvanas striding towards them. She was, to her surprise, alone. Jaina had been expecting Nathanos at her side, or at least one of her Rangers like a baleful and omnipresent shadow. 

The effect of her presence was immediate. Both Jaina and Anduin stiffened, and Greymane growled low in his throat, lowering his shoulders slightly as though preparing for an attack.

Utterly unconcerned with the other two, Sylvanas walked directly up to Jaina and stopped. Her scarlet gaze roved across her outfit, and when she smiled it was cold. "I'm so glad you could make it, Lord Admiral."

"I could hardly refuse," said Jaina.

"We both know that's not true."

Jaina did not refute that. She pursed her lips and held back an unwise remark. 

"I confess," Anduin said, "I am confused."

"I don't see why. You yourself said I was welcome to bring an advisor with me," said Sylvanas. She stood beside Jaina close enough that their elbows brushed when she gestured towards her. "And so I have."

Realisation washed over the others. Jaina tried her best to keep her expression neutral, but it wasn't easy. 

"I did say that," Anduin said slowly. "I just didn't expect it to be the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras."

"In my defense," said Jaina. "Neither did I."

"This is all very convenient," Greymane said. "I don't like it one bit."

"Now, now. Let's not quarrel before we've even sat down," Anduin said, trying to quell his council.

"Try to think of me as a mediator," Jaina implored.

The furrow in Greymane's brow only deepened. Sylvanas remained silent and smug, watching Greymane's mounting anger with an expression of distant amusement, as though she were above such petty things. Which, of course, Jaina knew she was not. Far from it.

Greymane pointed at Jaina. "You said you could hardly refuse. What's that supposed to mean, exactly?"

When Jaina darted her eyes towards Sylvanas in a silent question, Sylvanas simply blinked owlishly at her. Steeling herself, Jaina said, "I owe her a favour."

"And what other 'favours' does she hold over you?" Greymane asked.

Scowling at him, Jaina said sharply, "I don't appreciate what you're implying."

He sneered. "If it's true, then it's hardly an implication."

"Genn," Anduin chided firmly. "You're being inappropriate. And besides, I hardly think it’s any of our business." 

“If it adversely affects these negotiations, then it is very much our business,” Greymane insisted.

"While my relationship with the Warchief has not always been as -” Jaina hesitated over how to put it,  _ “- professional _ as it should have, I can assure you that I shall be as impartial as possible."

A disgusted expression crossed Greymane's face. "You see?" he growled.

In answer, Anduin shuffled his feet uncomfortably and scratched at the back of his neck. He refused to meet either Sylvanas or Jaina’s eye. 

“If I had been swayed by the Horde, then you would already know about it,” Jaina said darkly. “As it is, the neutrality and well being of Kul Tiras remains my foremost concern.”

“Believe me, gentlemen,” Sylvanas drawled with a sidelong look in Jaina’s direction. “This woman’s every waking moment is consumed with thoughts of duty and naught else. I know better than most.” 

Jaina opened her mouth to retort, but before she could do so Anduin held up his hands and said calmly but firmly, “Let’s all take a moment to collect ourselves. Genn,” Anduin shot him a level look. “Jaina and Sylvanas are here as my guests to negotiate the first terms of potential peace between the Horde and the Alliance in over a decade. Perhaps ever. Please remember that.” 

Greymane harrumphed. Jaina bristled. And Sylvanas smirked coolly at the three of them like the cat that had caught the canary. 

Rubbing at his forehead, Anduin sighed, “Can we please just go inside already?” 

Greymane rattled the door handle, which didn’t budge. “It’s not ready yet. Damn wizards have the room locked down until the allotted time.” 

“Oh, move aside,” Jaina said.

Waving them out of her way, she stepped forward. Jaina placed her palm flat on the door and closed her eyes. Magic rippled outwards, as though she had touched a still pond. She didn't remember the wards being quite this easy to circumvent in the past, and was half-convinced it was some sort of trap. But when she tried the door handle herself, it unlocked with a barely audible click.

The moment the door swung open, a soft bell chimed overhead and an inhuman sounding voice said,  _ 'Welcome, Archmage.' _

The others were giving her odd looks. Jaina pushed the door open a little further, and gestured for the others to enter before her. Anduin strode through first, followed closely by Greymane. 

When Sylvanas stepped by her, she murmured low enough for only the two of them to hear, "Just like old times?"

"Not exactly," Jaina muttered.

"Hmm."

When they were all inside, Jaina shut the door firmly behind them. The moment it was closed, she could feel a dampening spell spread over the walls. This meeting would be undisturbed and completely undetected for as long as they wished to stay. Which was probably why Anduin had elected to meet in Dalaran as their neutral grounds. 

There was a long table emblazoned with the emblem of the Kirin Tor. Another table stretched along one wall. It bore platters of food and bubbly drinks for the occupants. Stained glass windows adorned two of the walls, though Jaina could tell without even looking at them that they were enchantments. They were not near enough the complex's edge to have daylight here. 

Nobody was tempted by the food and drink, though Anduin did send them a rather pointed glance before sitting down at the head of the table. Sylvanas, of course, made her way to the other end of the table. The room could have seated twelve. With only four of them present, it meant that Sylvanas was as far from Anduin as she could possibly be without sitting on the windowsill.

Rolling her eyes, Jaina nonetheless followed. She made to sit midway along the table, but before she could do so, Sylvanas pulled out a seat directly beside her and held it expectantly. With a frown, Jaina continued along until she sat in the chair offered to her. Sylvanas' hands lingered on the back of her seat for a moment too long before she too sat down. 

Greymane had taken a seat beside his King so that the four of them perfectly mirrored one another. Jaina tried not to think too hard about the implications of that, and instead pulled out a notebook from her jacket pocket. With a snap of her fingers, a pen and inkwell appeared on the table before her. 

"I don't suppose you could conjure up writing implements for me as well?" Sylvanas asked.

Ignoring her, Jaina shuffled through a few pages of notes she had taken beforehand to prepare for the meeting. She cleared her throat and raised her voice. "I understand that your previous correspondence involved talk of a détente along shared borders, which has already been in place for the last month.”

She looked towards Sylvanas for an answer.

Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. "Do you even need my confirmation? You sound very up to date on everything."

"That's correct," Anduin supplied helpfully.

Sylvanas looked thoroughly put out by his intervention, but Jaina shot him a grateful look. 

"Shall we continue with a proposed period of non-belligerence, then?" she asked the table at large, watching for their expressions.

Anduin nodded, but Sylvanas remained completely still. Meanwhile, Greymane had not said a word. He was glowering at Sylvanas across the length of the table as though waiting for her to reveal that this was a ploy all along, and that she would actually be declaring a full-scale offensive on the spot.

"For how long?" Greymane growled.

"Well, that depends entirely on the parties in question," Jaina said. "A year, perhaps?"

"Six months," countered Sylvanas. “And I want Kul Tiras to enter into a defense pact with the Horde.” 

There was a squeal of wood against stone as Genn stood to his feet so abruptly his chair nearly fell over behind him. He planted his hands flat on the table and leaned over it. “Over my dead body,” he snarled. Turning to Anduin he pointed towards Sylvanas and Jaina. “You see? They have already agreed to everything before coming here! This entire meeting is a farce held in bad faith!”

“We haven’t agreed to anything!” Jaina insisted. Then she lowered her voice and hissed to Sylvanas, “What are you doing?”

Sylvanas pretended to ignore her, and continued to speak to Anduin. “How else am I supposed to trust that the Alliance won’t go back on their word? You have too much to gain. I want assurances that should you step out of line, consequences will be met.” 

Banging his hand onto the table, Genn straightened so that he towered. “And who is to say  _ you’ll _ keep your word? I wouldn’t trust you to tell me the colour of the sky!” 

For his part, Anduin had his hands clasped calmly atop the table. He tapped his thumbs against one another in a thoughtful manner. “Based on the Lord Admiral’s reaction,” he said. “I have no doubt that this was not cooked up between the two of you before arrival. And, truth be told, I am not entirely against the idea of a defense pact.” 

_ “What?” _ said Jaina and Genn simultaneously. 

“You can’t just -!” Genn started to say.

“After all I’ve done to -!” Jaina spoke over him, the both of their voices jumbling together.

Anduin held up both his hands. “Please.  _ Please!  _ You did not let me finish.” 

“You are not my king,” Jaina reminded him. “No matter what you and Sylvanas say here, Kul Tiras will make its own decisions, as it always has. Do not presume to -”

Sighing, Anduin shook his head and lowered his hands. “I am not presuming anything. Please let me finish talking.” 

Begrudgingly, Jaina leaned back in her seat. Even Genn sat down once more, though he remained on the edge of his chair, ready to leap into action at the slightest movement from Sylvanas. Meanwhile Syvlanas hadn’t moved a single muscle. Her coal-bright gaze roved between Anduin and Jaina as though putting together numbers in her head. When she noticed that Jaina was watching her, Sylvanas smirked. 

Jaina did not dignify that with a reaction. 

“I propose that Kul Tiras does enter into a defense pact,” Anduin continued. “With  _ both  _ the Horde and the Alliance. Should either side attack one another during the period of non-belligerence, Kul Tiras will weigh in on the side of the party who was wronged. That way, Kul Tiras maintains full neutrality, and both parties have an incentive for peace.” 

"I want more than vague reassurances," Genn snapped. "I want there to be real consequences should the Horde defy all notion of honour, as they have always done in the past."

To that, Sylvanas simply rolled her eyes. 

Jaina tapped her fingers against her notebook. The pages stuck slightly to her fingertips. "Past grudges are no way to look towards the future."

"No. But they reveal a pattern of behaviour that should not and cannot be ignored."

"You are overreacting, as usual," Sylvanas drawled. 

"Am I?" Greymane's lip curled. "The last time I saw you on the battlefield, you were besieging Teldrassil. A place -- need I remind you? -- filled with civilians."

Sylvanas shrugged that accusation aside. "I was following orders from my Warchief at the time. And last I checked, the Tree still stands, and its people live."

"Following orders is no excuse," he growled. 

A harder note edged Sylvanas' voice. "It is when Garrosh Hellscream had secret police infiltrating every city in the Horde. I think you'll find that compliance under threat of death is reasonable under any court."

Greymane scoffed. "Circular logic."

"I did what I had to in order to safeguard my people and more," Sylvanas said softly, yet now her eyes had that unblinking hypnotic quality that meant she was growing genuinely angry. "I could have burned the World Tree to the ground, but I did not. I could have slaughtered thousands, but I did not. Instead, I worked tirelessly to undermine and overthrow a bloodthirsty warlord from his perch. And I succeeded. More than once. I challenge you to do the same." 

A rumbling sound came from the back of his throat and his eyes seared a burnished gold, but otherwise he said nothing in return. 

Anduin cleared his through delicately. All eyes swung in his direction, and he did admirably to not shrink beneath the weight of those stares. “Shall we make it official, then? What say Kul Tiras to a defensive pact with both the Horde and Alliance for the promise of peace?”

Jaina drew her hands into her lap so that nobody could see her clench them into fists. This was what Anduin had promised her. And this was what she -- in return -- had expected and promised him. But as always the future never happened exactly as she anticipated. She had not seen this twist of events, and she did not know where this path would lead should she chose to walk it. 

She considered her alternatives. More than ever, she wished she had taken the time to pour herself a glass of sweet carbonated water. At least then she would have something to do that would buy her a bit more time. 

It was with a sense of sinking dread that she said, “I will agree to it. Whoever proves the belligerent, Kul Tiras will come to the aid of their foes.”

And beside her, Sylvanas smiled. 

* * *

For six sleepless months Jaina waited tensely for any news across Azeroth of Horde and Alliance clashes. 

She had her ships accompanying the Ashvane hulls report back any suspicious activity, particularly around contested zones. She paid careful attention to reports sent from Ashenvale, Tol Barad, and the Cape of Stranglethorn. Every letter from her various trusted Captains and Admirals was opened with a sense of dread that cut deep. 

She expected the worst. And by some miracle it never came.

* * *

It was a day where Jaina already felt ragged at the edges. Frayed as old cloth. Alfred wouldn't get off her back about a supposedly very important ceremonial ship's blessing that should have happened last week but which was postponed due to exceptionally foul weather, which -- according to him and the Monastery -- was a bad omen. Priscilla was harping on and on about needing more protection on the southern runs due to an increase in pirate activity in the area. And even Lucille was adding to Jaina's ever growing headache with the finer details of tax law. If Jaina never had to hear the phrase 'capital gains' again, it would be too soon.

She was sitting down for the first time in twelve hours, feeling bone-weary, when she heard a knock at the door to her private sitting room. For a brief moment she considered not answering, pretending she was asleep -- which wasn't far from the truth -- but nobody would knock on the door to her private quarters unless it was actually important. 

Jaina sighed. "Come in."

An officer in his glittering regalia stepped inside and immediately saluted. 

"What is it, Mr. Owens?" she asked, not rising from her place sprawled on the couch.

If Owens was at all surprised to see his Lord Admiral in her shirtsleeves, he did not show it. Though he kept his eyes fixed on the far wall as though addressing the paint instead of her. "There's been a ship sighted coming towards the Sounds, ma'am. The Warchief's Flagship, I'm told."

Well, that certainly got Jaina's attention. She sat up straight. _"The Wail?_ Are you sure?"

"Very much so. When hailed, she requested an escort into Boralus Harbour."

Jaina stared at him as her mind raced. Sylvanas. Here. In Boralus. Not just appearing at her cabin in Drustvar with the aid of that damn token. But actually here on an official state visit where people could see. 

"Your orders, ma'am?"

"Were there any other ships with her?"

"A few smaller vessels. A suitable squadron for a flagship of that size. Nothing more. Your decision?"

“About what?” Jaina asked distractedly.

"The escort." 

She blinked. "Oh. Yes. Of course." Jaina waved at him. "Give her an escort and full honours, as befitting a foreign dignitary. And have the Warchief brought to the Keep." 

"Ma'am." Owens gave her a sharp bow, turned about face, and left, closing the door shut behind him. 

The moment he was gone, Jaina stood and made her way to her work desk in the eastern parlour which she had converted into her office space. She didn't bother pulling on a coat or buttoning up her shirt to hide her scars. 

The work desk was covered in papers and spare pencils and pens and inkwells. Jaina sat and began rifling through them, furiously searching. 

There must have been something she missed. Some small, seemingly insignificant event that she had forgotten about. Surely there was still time. She must be able to fix it. 

Fear gripped her stomach as though bathing in acid. She felt like she was slowly being eaten away by dread. If Sylvanas were coming here herself, it must have been to bear bad news. To call upon Kul Tiras to honour its pact and come to the defense of the Horde. Sylvanas must have provoked Greymane somehow into making an unwise decision, thus igniting the fires of war once more. It was the kind of thing she would do, gladly and with spite.

But no matter how much Jaina searched for some shred of evidence that she had missed -- what was it Gorak Tul had said? or perhaps her father's ghost? she could not remember clearly -- there was nothing to be found.

By the time the rosy-fingered dawn had crept over the horizon, Jaina had gotten not a whit of sleep. She barely noticed the maids coming by and dimming the lamps around the rooms. They did not disturb her. Jaina was too busy muttering to herself and scrawling notes upon spare bits of paper as she read through reports and maps and various bits of legislation that had piled up on her desk. Outside the window she could hear the sound of cannons. A mock battle off the shore of Tol Dagor, perhaps. She did not pay much attention.

A knock at the door again. Jaina sat back with a frown and rubbed at her eyes. She inadvertently smudged her cheek with ink from her fingers. 

"Come in," she said. 

Owens was back. This time he stuttered in his normally crisp salute, instead holding both hands behind his back. "Ma'am?"

"What is it?" Jaina asked tiredly. She turned back to the work, blinking blearily past the exhaustion. 

"The Warchief," he said. "She is ready for you to receive her."

Startled, Jaina's head jerked up. She leaned back in her chair to look out the nearby window. Sure enough, full watery daylight was streaming through the omnipresent bank of cloud over Boralus.

The cannons weren't a mock battle. They were a gun salute for a foreign dignitary, which she herself had ordered. 

Swearing under her breath, Jaina hastily pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. "Thank you, Mr. Owens. Have her wait in the western parlour." 

"She is already there," he replied a bit sheepishly when she shot him a look. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. I assumed that was what you wanted."

"And you were right, of course. As you so often are," Jaina sighed. 

She was still wearing yesterday's clothes. They were beset with wrinkles, and at some point during the night she had accidentally dropped a pen onto her leg, which blotted ink into the pale fabric. Getting to the bedroom was out of the question. She would need to pass through the western parlour to reach it. 

By some miracle, Owens brought his hands forward to reveal that he had in fact smuggled a fresh waistcoat and cravat into the room with him. With a grateful smile, Jaina took them. "Thank you."

"Only my duty, ma'am." 

Jaina buttoned up her collar and began winding the cravat into place. "I hardly think of you as my valet."

"I am proud to serve," was his only reply. Then he added kindly, "And I've also taken the liberty of having a pot of strong tea brought up for you as well."

"What would I do without you?" 

"Find another lieutenant, I imagine," he said, but it was good-natured in tone. 

Shrugging into the waistcoat, Jaina laughed softly, "You're probably right."

He smiled at her, but his stance remained at attention. When she had finished and gestured towards the door, Owens bowed and opened it for her.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Jaina walked through and into the parlour. 

Someone had lit the fireplace to warm the room. Sylvanas stood before it, facing the flames as she waited. The curtains had been thrown open and tied back, admitting the pale light of the early afternoon. When she heard the door opening, Sylvanas turned.

She looked the same as ever. Aloof and confident in her armour and her face cast partially in shadow from the hood drawn over her head. Her crimson gaze found Jaina and remained there, taking in every wrinkle in her clothes, every wayward blotch of ink and strand of hair out of place. 

Owens did not wait. He murmured something and then showed himself out. 

When he had gone, Jaina gravitated towards a table, where a steaming pot of tea for two had been arrayed. "Forgive me," Jaina said, "But I've had a very long night. And if I don't have a cup of tea, I may fall over before we've managed to have half a conversation."

"We can't have that," Sylvanas said, her voice a liquid-dark murmur. She drifted towards the table as well, but kept a pace away, as though wary of drawing any nearer.

"You're -" Jaina poured herself a cup, searching for something to say that didn't sound utterly daft. "- looking well."

"Yes. I hear the pallor of death suits my complexion," Sylvanas drawled. 

"You know what I mean."

Sylvanas answered with a wordless hum, followed by, "And you look tired."

"I'm told it comes with the territory." Jaina poured a dollop of milk into her cup before lifting it to her mouth for a grateful -- if slightly desperate -- sip. "Don't lie and tell me you never indulged in a few all-nighters when you were Ranger General."

"I did, but I tried to limit myself as much as possible. A soldier who has an error in judgment is likely only to kill himself. A general who has an error in judgment is likely to kill many others."

"Now you sound like my mother," Jaina muttered around the porcelain rim.

"You flatter me."

Jaina could not help the huff of laughter that followed. When she glanced over, the corner of Sylvanas' mouth was curled in an impish smile. Her eyes glowed, coal-bright and positively pleased. 

Immediately, Jaina was suspicious. She took another hearty gulp of tea to fortify herself, before lowering it to the table. "What happened?"

Sylvanas lifted her eyebrows. "A great many things, I imagine. Things happen all the time. They’re happening right now, in fact," she said, throwing back Jaina's own words in her face from months ago.

With a flat and unimpressed look, Jaina asked instead, "Why are you here?"

"Perhaps I missed the pleasure of your company."

"I highly doubt that."

"Do you? What a shame."

"Can you please just -!" Jaina closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. When she released it, she could feel the tension unwind from her stomach, but there remained an ache behind her eyes. That would not fade until she got a proper night’s sleep, which had been difficult to come by ever since Thros. "I'm too tired for games.”

“You look too tired for many things.”

With a wry laugh, Jaina shook her head. “Of all the times to start practising honesty, you chose now.”

“I’ve been told it’s not one of my strong suits,” Sylvanas said. “And you know how I like to work on any weaknesses that might be exploited.”

“That I do.” 

Toying with the handle of her teacup, Jaina studied Sylvanas’ face for any indication of her true intentions. Despite her best efforts, nothing she had discovered last night had given her any hints of why Sylvanas might be here today. 

“You’re really not going to just tell me, are you?” Jaina asked when no answer was forthcoming.

Sylvanas’ smirk took on a self-satisfied edge. “Guess.”

With a sigh, Jaina lifted her teacup for another sip. It was to both give herself time to think and also a desperate attempt to wake herself up a bit more. Neither were very successful. Her mind whirred through the possibilities, but always it circled back to the most obvious answer. The one she didn’t want to voice or even consider. 

Finally, Jaina set her cup back down and straightened. “You’ve finally managed to beat me at my own game. The Alliance has attacked you, and you’re here to ensure I make good on my promise to support the Horde.”

If anything that seemed to amuse Sylvanas even more. She cocked her head to one side. “I’ve always found it odd that you are a pessimist,” she said. “It doesn’t suit you, somehow.”

"I do what I must. Because it's kept me alive. Because usually I'm right."

"You aren't."

Jaina's brows furrowed. "What?"

"You aren't right. Not fully, anyway." Sylvanas took a step forward, close enough to drag her fingers along the edge of the table as though testing the edge of a blade or perhaps checking for dust. "I have beaten you at your own game, but the Alliance has not attacked me."

"I don't understand."

"If only you'd told me the stakes to begin with, I might have been able to play your game earlier. Instead, we’ve had to waste time and go through -" Sylvanas gestured towards the room at large with a dismissive flutter of her fingers. "- all of this."

It was too early for this. It was too late for this. Jaina was too tired to tell which was more appropriate. "I swear to the Tides, if you don't start speaking sense -"

“They signed a peace treaty,” Sylvanas interrupted. “With me.”

Jaina’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. She placed her hand on the table to steady herself, and nearly knocked over the cup and saucer. Fumbling for it, she fussed with the drops of tea that had scattered across the table, and asked, “When? How -?”

“A week ago. I set out from Stormwind the moment we finished.”

Jaina could feel her mouth drop open. She knew she was gaping like a fool and had to give a little shake of her head. "You're serious?"

"Am I ever not?"

“But you said - you said peace could never happen while people had something to gain.”

“And you said to give them a gain greater than could be achieved through violence,” countered Sylvanas. When Jaina had no reply, she said, “Do you think I do not listen to you?”

“No, I - Well, I thought you didn’t care, to be honest. For peace,” Jaina added. “I thought death had made you battle hungry.” 

And why not? Sylvanas had only ever come to her with battle on her mind and on her tongue. Always with the clever schemes and strategies. Too clever by half. Dangerous, even.

Sylvanas was watching her unblinkingly, just like she had after the Admiralty ascension ceremony. Except this time her expression was neutral and considering. “You never asked,” she said. “I do not enjoy senseless violence. If I am to have war, then I will do so with purpose. Peace is no different. War is politics. And politics do not stop simply because there is no sanctioned violence. The Alliance has given me what I want for now. And in return we will have peace. For how long? I cannot say. But it is a beginning.”

Jaina stared at her. Then she looked down at herself. She patted at the space over her heart and felt around her neck. When that turned up nothing, she snapped her fingers and conjured a needle of frost which dropped to the table and shattered. At which point, she strode over to the nearest window and peered through it, searching. 

Outside there sprawled the memorial gardens to the west of Proudmoore Keep facing the Sounds. Fat merchant ships floated on the water beyond, waiting to berth at the Ashvane Docks. Sunlight glinted across the waves. And the gardens directly beneath her were green and lush. 

"Did you not hear me?" Sylvanas asked. 

When Jaina turned back around, Sylvanas was watching her with a furrow in her brow. One of her long ears was slanted back in irritation at being so summarily ignored, while the other remained half cocked in cautious curiosity.

Jaina did not answer. Instead she strode right past her, pushing through a door and into the bedroom beyond. She paid no heed to the startled noise Sylvanas made. Rounding the bed, Jaina stood before the travelling trunk and began fumbling with a key in her pocket to unlock it. Her hands were trembling. She had to go through three different iron deadbolts before the chains could be shoved to the ground and the chest wrenched open.

The skull mask was inside. It sat there, utterly silent and innocuous. Slowly, Jaina reached out to touch it, and held her breath until she felt preternaturally cold and weathered bone beneath her fingers. 

To the side, Jaina could hear Sylvanas enter the room. 

“Jaina, what is going on?” 

“This can’t be real,” Jaina mumbled. 

There was a burning behind her eyes. Her throat felt tight as though something were squeezing it shut. She swallowed past the sensation. She waited for spectral laughter, for everything to fade into the miasma, for the mephitic stench of Thros to well up in her lungs accompanied by the taste of blood and cold iron. 

There was only the gentle pad of footsteps across the carpet, as Sylvanas came to stand beside her. 

"Tell me I'm awake."

Sylvanas frowned. "What?"

"Please," Jaina breathed. She snatched her hand away from the skull as if burned. "I don't want this to be The Dream. I want this to be real."

If this were The Dream, then it was the cruelest vision Gorak Tul had summoned for her yet. A glimpse of hope against the inevitable. A future she could never reach despite all her efforts. 

"And how can I convince you that this is real?"

"I don't -" Jaina shook her head. "Do something outrageous. Something you wouldn't do in your right mind. Hit me, or - or -"

Instead Sylvanas kissed her. There was nothing soft and warm about it. Sylvanas’ mouth was cool and hard against her own, but it achieved the same effect. And when it was over, Jaina felt winded, like she had run across an open plain or forgotten how to breathe.

Sylvanas was cupping Jaina’s face in her hands. She stroked her thumbs gently across the line of her jaw. "Is that something I would do in The Dream?"

Numbly, Jaina shook her head. "No. No, you wouldn't even look at me. I would be beneath your notice."

With a small smile, Sylvanas combed back a wayward strand of Jaina’s hair, tucking it behind her ear. Her fingertips lingered against the warm skin there. "That is impossible,” she said. “I could never overlook you anywhere."

* * *

* * *

In the end, when she finds Gorak Tul, the last tree of Thros is gone and he is chopping it to pieces. It is the same tree from which she had hung. Even the sight of it makes her chest constrict; it is suddenly difficult to breathe. 

She arrives just in time to see the tree crash to the earth with a great snapping groan. Dust flares up when it falls, scattering into the air in great plumes that drift back down to the ground. Gorak Tul does not take any notice of her approach. He begins methodically swinging his axe, working his way from trunk to top, slowly breaking the tree into increasingly smaller pieces. 

It is almost cathartic watching him work. As though it had been the tree itself that had wronged her by complying, by allowing itself to hold her aloft for so long. Even though she knows that's foolish -- it's just a tree -- but it feels good all the same. 

Chips of wood fly into the air. They spin away. A few of them land at her feet. Though the tree had seemed to be black and dead, when Jaina looks down the pulp is red, as though the tree were still alive, as though it were an animal being hacked to pieces. Or perhaps that is her own blood. Perhaps they are the same thing now. Where she ends and the tree begins she can no longer tell. 

Leaning against her sickle staff, Jaina says, "I've come back. Just like I said I would."

He ignores her. His axe swings viciously down, digging into the tree’s trunk, and he tears it free to lift the weapon over his head once more. 

“I am going to cut off your head,” Jaina says. “And this time, you will die.” 

At the apex of his swing, Gorak Tul hesitates. Then he brings the axe down again. Wood chips fly like a splatter of blood, staining his forearms red. “You are not the Hero.” 

“Yes. I am.” 

His face twists with rage. He straightens, towers over her, his joints creaking like the limbs of a tree in a breeze. Darkness clouds his face until only his eyes are clearly visible, bright as starlight. He casts a shadow that seems to cover all the earth, like a bank of fog that has stretched across the sky to veil the moon from sight until the land is awash in night. 

When he speaks, his voice is a rumble of the earth beneath her feet. "I have shown you your future. You will fail."

Jaina has to swallow past a frisson of fear that prickles down her spine. "I will not. I will change. I will make a difference." 

"Some things can never change. You may kill me, but my voice will live on. You will die. And once again I will await The Hero foretold. Thus it was. Thus it is. Thus it shall be. Thus The Cycle continues." 

Jaina does not reply. Wordlessly, she holds out her hands. Before him, she is small. He can hold the axe over her as though she were a child, and she can not even hope to reach it. 

"Give me your axe, so that I might cut off your head," she says. "Thrice you killed me, but I live again. Blinded me, but I see. And now it is your turn." 

Gorak Tul's eyes narrow until they are slits of light cutting through the gloom. This time when he gives her the axe, she is ready for its weight. She holds it easily in her hands. The handle is made of some sort of bone or antler, worn smooth through the centuries. Its blade is bearded for battle on one end, the other shaped for felling. The iron is pitted and red with rust and blood, but it can cut through anything with a single blow. 

Just as before, Gorak Tul bows. She cuts off his head. For a moment his body seems suspended in time, remaining upright for far too long, until finally he comes crashing down like the tree had before him, with a great snapping, cracking groan. She stands over him, disbelieving, the hilt of the axe slick with sweat and blood from her palms. 

When she lets go, the axe remains upright, buried in the ground, shivering slightly, as though the weapon itself were alive. The moment her hands are free, the axe handle seems to follow after her, and a single new green leaf chases the cold air. Thin roots take hold, twisting into the earth, drinking up the blood that spreads from Gorak Tul’s body like dark water.

She staggers back a step and looks down. Hesitant, afraid to touch him, she reaches forward and grabs hold of the horns of his head. 

It is as though his head has been slow cooked over a fire; the moment she picks it up by the horns, all the meat and skin sloughs off, and the bones slip free. Blood and darker matter streak his skull. It is not a human skull. Not anymore. It’s too animalistic for that. Perhaps a deer skull, but the teeth are too many and too sharp.

The warm blood faintly steams in the cold misty air of Thros. It paints Jaina's hands up beyond her wrists, splattering her robes. A cacophony of whispers rises with every heartbeat in her chest. She stares at Gorak Tul's skull. Then, slowly she turns it over, lifts it up, and places it over her own face.

* * *

* * *

“Wake up.” 

Jaina jerked from The Dream, yanked back into reality. She bit back a gasp, looking around for any sign of danger. There was just her cabin in Drustvar, and Sylvanas perched at the edge of her bed, her hand a comforting weight on Jaina's shoulder. 

Sylvanas pulled her hand away. "You were thrashing in your sleep. I thought it a kindness to wake you."

"Thank you," said Jaina. Her brow was stippled with cold sweat. She sat up, the sheets dragging along her bare legs, and wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. "And -- sorry."

Sylvanas' eyes cut slits through the night like red-tinted lanterns. "What for? I was not sleeping. You did not disturb me."

"Right. Of course." 

When Jaina dragged a hand through her unbound hair, a few loose strands stuck to her temples. She grimaced. She would need to take a bath. 

"Are you all right?"

Sylvanas was watching her with concern, but her ears were perked in a faint tilt of curiosity as well. 

Jaina waved her away. "I'm fine. I'm used to it. Well -- as used to it as one can be." 

One of those long ears twitched, but Sylvanas' expression never changed. "What did you see?" 

"The usual." Jaina shrugged, then tucked her feet up so she could grasp her ankles and rest her chin against her knees. 

"You can elaborate, you know. I promise not to tell."

Jaina shot her an exasperated look.

In response, Sylvanas smirked and lifted her hand over her heart. "You have my word, Lord Admiral." 

That earned a snort of laughter. Sylvanas stood, and for a moment Jaina was afraid she was going to leave her alone, but she only rounded the bed to lie beside her over the sheets. Sylvanas leaned her back against the headboard. They were close enough that when Jaina shifted, their arms brushed together. 

Sylvanas' skin was cool, but not cold. The longer they stayed pressed together, the warmer she became. Her armour had long since been discarded, scattered throughout the first floor when they had stumbled through the door. Now on the floor below, the embers in the fireplace cast a dim reddish glow across the ceiling, marking out silhouettes in the dark. 

Chewing on her lower lip, Jaina considered telling Sylvanas the truth. Finally she said, "It's not that I don't trust you. It's just -"

"- That you don't trust me enough," Sylvanas finished for her, though her tone was light and teasing, and her expression not at all angry. 

"That's - that’s not it, either." 

It was it. Folding her legs, she brought her hands into her own lap, twisting her fingers anxiously together. She stared down at them as though mesmerised, not daring to look up. She stiffened when Sylvanas reached carefully over and clasped Jaina's hands with her own. 

"I can fight another war for you," Sylvanas offered dryly. "Would that help?"

Jaina huffed with laughter. "Thank you, but no."

"Are you sure? Because I hear the Alliance has just lowered their guard."

"Very funny."

With a dark chuckle, Sylvanas squeezed her hand. She allowed Jaina to toy with her calloused fingers. 

Swallowing thickly, Jaina said in a rush, "In The Dream I see events that can potentially come to pass, none of which are pre-determined or set in stone in any way."

A long pause followed that confession. 

And then Sylvanas said flatly, "Are you telling me that you can see the future?"

"No. Not exactly. It's more complicated than that. It’s difficult to describe."

Another comforting squeeze to her hand. "Try. If you can."

Jaina's voice was shaking. The words came tumbling out of her. Once she started talking about it, she didn't seem able to stop. 

"It's not what you think. I can't choose what I see. There are these fragments. Scenes. I'm always an actor in them. Sometimes they involve people I've never even met, or will never meet. Sometimes the scenes happen slightly differently in reality. A word or phrase here and there that's off. Other times they happen exactly as I've seen before. But mostly they never happen at all. The potential for those moments to occur has been redirected by my choices, or the choices of others around me. It's not recursive. It's -" She struggled to think of the right analogy. "It's like a stream. Things flow through it. You can put rocks in the way. Build dams. Divert it. But only so much. Time continues, regardless."

Silent, Sylvanas listened. When Jaina paused for a moment, she asked, "I have never heard of Druids having a particularly strong connection to time. Do all Thornspeakers experience this in The Dream?" 

Jaina shook her head. "No. Gorak Tul shows them to me. He speaks to me here sometimes, too. When I -"

The wind outside cut across the cabin and rattled the door. She cut herself off at the noise. From the floor below, she could barely hear faint whispers. As though someone were standing outside the front door, asking to be let inside. 

Sylvanas did not seem to have heard. Then again, others seldom did, if ever. "I thought you killed him."

"Can you kill something that was never alive?” Jaina asked without actually wanting an answer. “When I die, he will be back, and another will have to do what I did. And so The Cycle continues."

There had been times when Ulfar had been alive that he would go quiet as though listening to someone else talk. Back then, Jaina had simply thought him old and a bit scattered. Now, she knew better. 

Sylvanas moved her hand, but only to gently pat Jaina's leg. "Thank you for telling me."

"If you ask me to predict weather or future stock prices, I will not be amused," Jaina warned her.

Sylvanas chuckled wryly. Then she fell silent for a moment before saying, "You told me that I would never see you in The Dream."

"That's right," Jaina said. "Our paths don’t cross."

"Then what does that make this?"

Shrugging, Jaina answered, "An anomaly, I suppose." She reached down to clasp Sylvanas' hand so that she would not move it away. "One that I'm grateful for."

Sylvanas hummed a wordless note. She did not try to pull away, content to let Jaina toy with her fingers with all the restlessness of the living. "And what does Gorak Tul tell you now?"

Jaina's brow furrowed. She cast her mind back to Thros, to his horrific visions that had haunted her for years unending. But none of them had remotely resembled this moment. 

Eventually she shook her head, "Nothing."

"Then you've done it," Sylvanas said simply.

Tilting her head to one side, Jaina shifted slightly to get a better look at Sylvanas. "What do you mean?"

"I remember a time when a voice told me what my future held. And when I broke free, the first thing I felt was not relief, but terror. What would I do now? Where would I go? Who could I trust?” Sylvanas squeezed Jaina’s hand, and said, “There is no answer. You may hear the ghost of his voice again, but never forget that you are free.” 

The wind outside howled, but the warmth of the cabin was steadfast. When Sylvanas glanced in her direction, Jaina murmured, “I like the sound of that.”

A comfortable silence descended. Jaina leaned her head on Sylvanas’ shoulder. She dragged her thumb across the back of Sylvanas’ knuckles, relishing the texture of her skin as it warmed to the touch. At some point -- she did not know exactly when -- Jaina had stopped moving entirely and she had begun to drift off.

Sylvanas nudged her gently with her elbow. “Go. Lie back down,” she murmured. “I will be here when the morning comes. We have much to do, and you need rest.”

Mumbling something unintelligible, Jaina shuffled down onto the bed. A blanket was pulled over her, and she could feel the reassuring weight of another person at her side. Her eyes drooped shut. She let herself sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I mentioned in a comment that Sylvanas never burned Teldrassil in this AU. The implication here is that Garrosh tried to force her to do so, but she refused and found a way around it to depose him instead, similar to when she was under the yoke of the Lich King.
> 
> -One of the scenes that got cut was a smut scene because wow I’m tired and romance has never been the real goal of this story. 
> 
> -Does it count as an epilogue if it's 30k words long?? we just don't know.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been mulling over the idea of a Drust AU for ages. I love that ladyptarmigan wrote 'the wind that shakes the undergrowth' based on my old drawings of Drust!Jaina, but wanted to do my own take. So, here we go.
> 
> Some BfA elements are, of course, used here but there are some important things to note:
> 
> -Jaina never studied at Dalaran  
> -Jaina never met Arthas  
> -Jaina never founded Theramore


End file.
